He ground out the words savagely, between clenched teeth.  Yet his look was defiant still.  He held himself as a man defying shame.

Crowther’s eyes never varied.  They looked straight back with a wide kindliness greater than compassion, wholly devoid of reproach.

“All right, Piers,” he said simply.

Piers stared at him for a moment as one in blank amazement, then very strangely his face altered.  The hardness went from it like a mask suddenly rent away.  He made an inarticulate sound and turned from the open window.

A second later he was sunk in Crowther’s chair with his head in his hands, sobbing convulsively, painfully, uncontrollably, in an agony that tore like a living thing at the very foundations of his being.

A smaller man than Crowther might have been at a loss to deal with such distress, but Crowther was ready.  He had seen men in extremities of suffering before.  He knew how to ease a crushing burden.  He sat down on the arm of the chair and thrust a strong hand over Piers’ shoulder, saying no word.

Minutes passed ere by sheer violence that bitter anguish wore itself out at last.  There came a long, piteous silence, then Piers’ hand feeling blindly upwards.  Crowther’s grip encompassed it like a band of iron, but still for a space no word was spoken.

Then haltingly Piers found his voice.  “I’m sorry—­beastly sorry—­to have made such an ass of myself.  You’re jolly decent to me, Crowther.”

To which Crowther made reply with a tenderness as simple as his own soul.  “You’re just a son to me, lad.”

“A precious poor specimen!” muttered Piers.

He remained bowed for a while longer, then lifted at length a face of awful whiteness and leaned back upon Crowther’s arm, still fast holding to his hand.

“You know, you’re such an awfully good chap,” he said, “that one gets into the way of taking you for granted.  But I won’t encroach on your goodness much longer.  You’re busy, what?” He smiled a quivering smile, and glanced momentarily towards the littered table.

“It will keep,” said Crowther quietly.

“No, it won’t.  Life isn’t long enough.  On my soul, do you know it’s like coming into sanctuary to enter a place like this?  I feel as if I’d shut my own particular devil on the other side of the door.  But he’ll wait for me all right.  We shan’t lose each other on that account.”

He uttered a laugh that testified more to the utter weariness of his soul than its bitterness.

“Where are you staying?” said Crowther.

“At Marchmont’s.  At least I’ve got a room there.  I haven’t any definite plans at present.”

“Unless you go round the world with me,” said Crowther.

Piers’ eyes travelled upwards sharply.  “No, old chap.  I didn’t mean it.  I wouldn’t have you if you’d come.  It was only a try-on, that.”

“Some try-ons fit,” said Crowther gravely.  He turned towards the table, and reached for the drink he had prepared for Piers.  “Look here, sonny!  Have a drink!”