She herself felt weary and strangely sick at heart.  Those few words of his had been a bitter revelation to her.  She knew now what was wanting between them.  He desired passion from her rather than love.  He had no use for spiritual things.  And she,—­she knew that she shrank inwardly whenever she encountered that fierce, untamed desire of his.  It fettered her spirit, it hung upon her like an overpowering weight.  She could not satisfy his wild Southern nature.  He crushed her love with the very fierceness of his possession and ever cried to her for more.  He seemed insatiable.  Even though she gave him all she had, he still hungered, still strove feverishly to possess himself of something further.

She felt worn out, body and soul, and she could not hide it.  She was unspeakably glad when at length the meal was over and she was able to leave the table.

Crowther opened the door for her, looking at her with eyes of kindly criticism.

“You look tired,” he said.  “I hope you don’t sit up late.”

She smiled at him.  “Oh no!  We will make Piers play to us presently, and then I will say good-night.”

“Then we mustn’t keep you waiting long,” he said.  “So Piers is a musician, is he?  I didn’t know.”

“You had better go to bed, Avery; it’s late,” said Piers abruptly.  “I can’t play to-night.  The spirit doesn’t move me.”  He rose from the table with a careless laugh.  “Say good-night to her, Crowther, and let her go!  We will smoke in the garden.”

There was finality in his tone, its lightness notwithstanding.  Again there came to Avery the impulse to rebel, and again instinctively she caught it back.  She held out her hand to Crowther.

“I am dismissed then,” she said.  “Good-night!”

His smile answered hers.  He looked regretful, but very kindly.  “I am glad to see Piers takes care of you,” he said.

She laughed a little drearily as she went away, making no other response.

Crowther turned back to the table with its shaded candles and gleaming wine.  He saw that Piers’ glass was practically untouched.

Piers himself was searching a cabinet for cigars.  He found what he sought, and turned round with the box in his hand.

“I don’t know what you generally smoke,” he said.  “Will you try one of these?  It’s a hot night.  We may as well have coffee in the garden.”

He seemed possessed with a spirit of restlessness, just as he had been on that night at the Casino in the spring.  Crowther, massive and self-contained, observed him silently.

They went out on to the terrace, and drank their coffee in the dewy stillness.  But even there Piers could not sit still.  He prowled to and fro eternally, till Crowther set down his cup and joined him, pushing a quiet hand through his arm.

“It’s a lovely place you’ve got here, sonny,” he said; “a regular garden of Paradise.  I almost envy you.”