“Really?” said Avery.

“Yes, really.  I should then have had the pleasure of forgiving you.  It’s a pleasure I don’t often get.  You see, I’m usually the one that’s in the wrong.”

She looked at him then with quick interest; she could not help it.  But the dark eyes triumphed over her so shamelessly that she veiled it on the instant.

Piers laughed.  “Mrs. Denys, may I ask a directly personal question?”

“I don’t know why you should,” said Avery.

They were nearing the pillar-box at the end of the Vicarage lane, and she was firmly determined that at that box their ways should separate.

“I know you think I’m bold and bad,” said Piers.  “Some kind friend has probably told you so.  But I’m not.  I’ve been brought up badly, that’s all.  I think you might bear with me.  I’m quite willing to be bullied.”  There was actual pathos in the declaration.

Again the fleeting dimple hovered near Avery’s mouth.  “Please don’t take my opinion for granted in that way!” she said.  “I have hardly had time to form one yet.”

“Then I may ask my question?” said Piers.

She turned steady grey eyes upon him.  “Yes; you may.”

Piers’ face was perfectly serious.  “Are you really married?” he asked.

The level brows went up a little.  “I have been a widow for six years,” said Avery very quietly.

He stared at her in surprise unfeigned.  “Six years!”

She replied in the same quiet voice.  “I lost my husband when I was twenty-two.”

“Great Heavens above!” ejaculated Piers.  “But you’re not—­not—­I say, forgive me, I must say it—­you can’t be as old as that!”

“I am twenty-nine,” said Avery faintly smiling.

They had reached the letter-box.  She dropped in her letters one by one.  Piers stood confounded, looking on.

Suddenly he spoke.  “And you’ve been doing this mothers’-helping business for six years?”

“Oh no!” she said.

She turned round from the box and faced him.  The red winter sunset glowed softly upon her.  Her grey eyes looked straight into it.

“No!” she said again.  “I had my little girl to take care of for the first six months.  You see, she was born blind, soon after her father’s death, and she needed all the care I could give her.”

Piers made a sharp movement—­a gesture that was almost passionate; but he said nothing.

Avery withdrew her eyes from the sunset, and looked at him.  “She died,” she said, “and that left me with nothing to do.  I have no near relations.  So I just had to set to work to find something to occupy me.  I went into a children’s hospital for training, and spent some years there.  Then when that came to an end, I took a holiday; but I found I wanted children.  So I cast about me, and finally answered Mr. Lorimer’s advertisement and came here.”  She began to smile.  “At least I have plenty of children now.”