“You’re tired out,” said Piers softly.  “It was a shame to keep you here.  I’m awfully sorry, dear.”

She stirred at that, beginning to seek for freedom.  “Don’t, Piers!” she said.  “It—­it isn’t right of you.  It isn’t fair.”

He knelt swiftly down before her.  His voice came quick and passionate in answer.  “It can’t be wrong to love you,” he said.  “And you will never be any the worse for my love.  Let me love you, Avery!  Let me love you!”

The words rushed out tempestuously.  His forehead was bowed upon her hands.  He became silent, and through the silence she heard his breathing, hard and difficult,—­the breathing of a man who faces stupendous odds.

With an effort she summoned her strength.  Yet she could not speak harshly to him, for her heart went out in pity.  “No, you mustn’t, Piers,” she said.  “You mustn’t indeed.  I am years older than you are, and it is utterly unsuitable.  You must forget it.  You must indeed.  There!  Let us be friends!  I like you well enough for that.”

He uttered a laugh that sounded as though it covered a groan.  “Yes, you’re awfully good to me,” he said.  “But you’re not—­in one sense—­anything approaching my age, and pray Heaven you never will be!”

He raised his head and looked at her.  “And you’re not angry with me?” he said, half wistfully.

No, she was not angry.  She could not even pretend to be.  “But please be sensible!” she begged.  “I know it was partly my fault.  If I hadn’t been so tired, it wouldn’t have happened.”

He got to his feet, still holding her hands.  “No; you’re not to blame yourself,” he said.  “What has happened was bound to happen, right from the very beginning.  But I’m sorry if it has upset you.  There is no reason why it should that I can see.  You are better now?”

He helped her gently to rise.  They stood face to face in the dim candlelight, and his eyes looked into hers with such friendly concern that again she had it not in her heart to be other than kind.

“I am quite well,” she assured him.  “Please forget my foolishness!  Tell me what it was you played just now!”

“That last thing?” he said.  “Surely you know that!  It was Handel’s Largo.”

She started.  “Of course!  I remember now!  But—­I’ve never heard it played like that before.”

A very strange smile crossed his face.  “No one but you would have understood,” he said.  “I wanted you to hear it—­like that.”

She withdrew her hands from his.  Something in his words sent a curious feeling that was almost dread through her heart.

“I don’t—­quite—­know what you mean,” she said.

“Don’t you?” said Piers, and in his voice there rang a note of recklessness.  “It’s a difficult thing to put into words, isn’t it?  I just wanted you to see the Open Heaven as I have seen it—­and as I shall never see it again.”

“Piers!” she said.