He had never wanted to love Piers either, but somehow the matter had not rested with him.  From the arms of Victor, Piers had always yearned to his grandfather, wailing lustily till he found himself held to the hard old heart that had nought but harshness and intolerance for all the world beside.  He had as it were taken that unwilling heart by storm, claiming it as his right before he was out of his cradle.  And later the attachment between them had grown and thriven, for Piers had never relinquished the ground he had won in babyhood.  By sheer arrogance of possession he had held his own till the impetuous ardour of his affection and the utter fearlessness on which it was founded had made of him the cherished idol of the heart which had tried to shut him out.  Sir Beverley gloried in the boy though he still flattered himself that no one suspected the fact, and still believed that his rule was a rule of stern discipline under which Piers might chafe but against which he would never openly revolt.

He could not remember a single occasion upon which he had not been able to master Piers, possibly after a fierce struggle but always with absolute completeness in the end.  And there was so much of sweetness in the youngster’s nature that, unruly though he might be, he never nurtured a grievance.  He would fight for his own way to the last of his strength, but when beaten he always yielded with a good grace.  To his grandfather alone he could submit without any visible wound to his pride.  Who could help glorying in a boy like that?

David the butler, a man of infinite respectability, came softly into the hall and approached his master.

“Are you ready for dinner, Sir Beverley?”

“No,” snapped Sir Beverley.  “Can’t you see Master Piers isn’t here?”

“Very good, sir,” murmured David, and retired decorously, fading into the background without the faintest sound, while Caesar the Dalmatian who had entered with him lay sedately down in well-bred silence at Sir Beverley’s feet.

There fell a pause, while Sir Beverley’s eyes returned to the wide oak staircase, watching it ceaselessly, with vulture-like intentness.  Then after the passage of minutes, there came the sound of feet that literally scampered along the corridor above, and in a moment, with meteor-like suddenness, Piers flashed into view.

He seemed to descend the stairs without touching them, and was greeted at the foot by Caesar, who leapt to meet him with wide-mouthed delight.

“Hullo, you scamp, hullo!” laughed Piers, responding to the dog’s caresses with a careless hand.  “Out of the way with you!  I’m late.”

“As usual,” observed Sir Beverley, leaning slowly forward, still with his eyes unblinkingly fixed upon his grandson’s merry face.  “Come here, boy!”

Piers came to him unabashed.

Sir Beverley got heavily to his feet and took him by the shoulder.  “Who is that woman, Piers?” he said, regarding him piercingly.