“My turn?” Avery glanced at his dark, handsome face with a touch of curiosity.

He met her eyes with his own as if he would beat them back.  “Aren’t you generous enough to remind me that but for your timely interference I should have beaten my own dog to death only yesterday?  You were almost ready to flog me for it at the time.”

“Oh, that!” Avery said, looking away again.  “Yes, of course I might remind you of that if I wanted to be personal; but, you see,—­I don’t.”

“Why not!” said Piers stubbornly.  “You were personal enough yesterday.”

The dimple, for which Avery was certainly not responsible, appeared suddenly near her mouth.  “I am afraid I lost my temper yesterday,” she said.

“How wrong of you!” said Piers.  “I hope you confessed to the Reverend Stephen.”

She glanced at him again and became grave.  “No, I didn’t confess to anyone.  But I think it’s a pity ever to lose one’s temper.  It involves a waste of power.”

“Does it?” said Piers.

“Yes.”  She nodded with conviction.  “We need all the strength we can muster for other things.  How is your dog to-day?”

Piers ignored the question.  “What other things?” he demanded.

She hesitated.

“Go on!” said Piers imperiously.

Avery complied half-reluctantly.  “I meant—­mainly—­the burdens of life.  We can’t afford to weaken ourselves by any loss of self-control.  The man who keeps his temper is immeasurably stronger than the man who loses it.”

Piers was frowning; his dark eyes looked almost black.  Suddenly he turned upon her.  “Mrs. Denys, I have a strong suspicion that your temper is a sweet one.  If so, you’re no judge of these things.  Why didn’t you leather me with my own whip yesterday?  You had me at your mercy.”

Avery smiled.  Plainly he was set upon a personal encounter, and she could not avoid it.  “Well, frankly, Mr. Evesham,” she said, “I was never nearer to striking anyone in my life.”

“Then why did you forbear?  You weren’t afraid to souse me with cold water.”

“Oh no,” she said.  “I wasn’t afraid.”

“I believe you were,” maintained Piers.  “You’re afraid to speak your mind to me now anyway.”

She laughed a little.  “No, I’m not.  I really can’t explain myself to you.  I think you forget that we are practically strangers.”

“You talk as if I had been guilty of familiarity,” said Piers.

“No, no!  I didn’t mean that,” Avery coloured suddenly, and the soft glow made her wonderfully fair to see.  “You know quite well I didn’t mean it,” she said.

“It’s good of you to say so,” said Piers.  “But I really didn’t know.  I thought you had decided that I was a suitable subject for snubbing.  I’m not a bit.  I’m so accustomed to it that I don’t care a—­” he paused with a glance of quizzical daring, and, as she managed to look severe, amended the sentence—­“that I am practically indifferent to it.  Mrs. Denys, I wish you had struck me yesterday.”