She leaned swiftly towards him.  “Piers,—­my dear—­what is it?  What is it?” she said, under her breath.

But in that instant the look vanished.  The old fierce flare of passion blazed forth upon her, held her burningly, till finally she drew back before it in mute protest.  “So you will forgive me,” he said, in a tone that seemed to contain something of a jeering quality.  “We are all human, what?  You’re looking better now.  Egad, Avery, you’re splendid!”

Her heart died within her.  She turned her face away, as one ashamed.

The church at Wardenhurst was thronged with a chattering crowd of guests.  Piers and Avery arrived late, so late that they had some difficulty in finding seats.  Tudor, who was present and looking grimly disgusted with himself, spied them at length, and gave up his place to Avery.

The bride entered almost immediately afterwards, young, lovely, with the air of a queen passing through her subjects.  Dick Guyes at the altar was shaking with nervousness, but Ina was supremely self-possessed.  She even sent a smile of casual greeting to Piers as she went.

She maintained her attitude of complete sang-froid throughout the service, and Piers watched her critically with that secret smile at the corners of his lips which was not good to see.

He did not seem aware of anyone else in the church till the service was over, and the strains of the Wedding March were crashing through the building.  Then very suddenly he turned and looked at his wife—­with that in his dark eyes that thrilled her to the soul.

A man’s voice accosted him somewhat abruptly.  “Are you Sir Piers Evesham?  I’m the best man.  They want you to sign the register.”

Piers started as one rudely awakened from an entrancing dream.  An impatient exclamation rose to his lips which he suppressed rather badly.  He surveyed the man who addressed him with a touch of hauteur.

Avery surveyed him also, and as not very favourably impressed.  He was a small man with thick sandy eyebrows and shifty uncertain eyes.  He looked hard at Piers in answer to the latter’s haughty regard, and Avery became aware of a sudden sharp change in his demeanour as he did so.  He opened his eyes and stared in blank astonishment.

“Hullo!” he ejaculated softly.  “You!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Piers.

It was a challenge, albeit spoken in an undertone.  He stood like a man transfixed as he uttered it.  There came to Avery a quick hot impulse to intervene, to protect him from some hidden danger, she knew not what, that had risen like a serpent in his path.  But before she could take any action, the critical moment was passed.  Piers had recovered himself.

He stepped forward.  “All right.  I will come,” he said.

She watched him move away in the direction of the vestry with that free, proud gait of his, and a great coldness came down upon her, wrapping her round, penetrating to her very soul.  Who was that man with the shifty eyes?  Why had he stared at Piers so?  Above all, why had Piers stood with that stiff immobility of shock as though he had been stabbed in the back?