Piers’ forehead was instantly drawn by a quick frown.  He stood passive, but there was a suggestion of resistance about him notwithstanding.

“Whom do you mean, sir?” he said.  “What woman?”

“You know very well who I mean,” snarled Sir Beverley.  “Come, I’ll have none of your damn’ nonsense.  Never have stood it and never will.  Who was that white-faced cat that got in my way this afternoon and helped you to a thrashing?  Eh, Piers?  Who was she, I say?  Who was she?”

Piers made a sharp involuntary movement of the hands, and as swiftly restrained himself.  He looked his grandfather full in the face.

“Ask me after dinner, sir,” he said, speaking with something of an effort, “and I’ll tell you all I know.”

“You’ll tell me now!” declared Sir Beverley, shaking the shoulder he gripped with savage impatience.

But Piers put up a quick hand and stopped him.  “No, sir, not now.  Come and dine first!  I’ve no mind to go dinnerless to bed.  Come, sir, don’t badger me!” He smiled suddenly and very winningly into the stern grey eyes.  “There’s all the evening before us, and I shan’t shirk.”

He drew the bony old hand away from his shoulder, and pulled it through his arm.

“I suppose you think you’re irresistible,” grumbled Sir Beverley.  “I don’t know why I put up with you; on my soul, I don’t, you impudent young dog!”

Piers laughed.  “Let’s do one thing at a time anyway, and I’m ravenous for dinner.  So must you be.  Come along!  Let’s trot in and have it!”

He had his way.  Sir Beverley went with him, though half against his will.  They entered the dining-room still linked together, and a woman’s face smiled down upon them from a picture-frame on the wall with a smile half-sad, half-mocking—­such a smile as even at that moment curved Piers’ lips, belying the reckless gaiety of his eyes.

They dined in complete amicability.  Piers had plenty to say at all times, and he showed himself completely at his ease.  He was the only person in the world who ever was so in Sir Beverley’s presence.  He even now and then succeeded in provoking a sardonic laugh from his grandfather.  His own laughter was boyishly spontaneous.

But at the end of the meal, when wine was placed upon the table, he suddenly ceased his careless chatter, and leaned forward with his dark eyes full upon Sir Beverley’s face.

“Now, sir, you want to know the name of the girl who wasn’t afraid of you this afternoon, I mentioned her to you once before.  Her name is Avery Denys.  She is a widow; and she calls herself the mother’s help at the Vicarage.”

He gave his information with absolute steadiness.  His voice was wholly free from emotion of any sort, but it rang a trifle stern, and his mouth—­that sensitive, clean-cut mouth of his—­had the grimness of an iron resolution about it.  Sir Beverley looked at him frowningly over his wine.