The wide-open window offered a view over the garden at the back of the house, and on the lawn he saw a little group of ladies.  Seated in basket chairs, Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter were conversing with a third person whom Piers did not know, a tall, fair-faced girl who stood before them and seemed at this moment to be narrating some lively story.  Even had her features been hidden, the attitude of this stranger, her admirable form and rapid, graceful gestures, must have held the young man’s attention; seeing her with the light full on her countenance, he gazed and gazed, in sudden complete forgetfulness of his half-opened letter.  Just so had he stood before the print shop in London this morning, with the same wide eyes, the same hurried breathing; rapt, self-oblivious.

He remembered.  The Hannafords’ relative, Miss Derwent, was expected to-day; and Miss Derwent, doubtless, he beheld.

The next moment it occurred to him that his observation, within earshot of the group, was a sort of eavesdropping; he closed his window and turned away.  The sound must have drawn attention, for very soon there came a knock at the door, and the servant inquired of him whether he would have tea, as usual, in his room, or join the ladies below.

“Bring it here, please,” he replied.  “And—­yes, tell Mrs. Hannaford that I shall not come down to dinner—­you can bring me anything you like—­just a mouthful of something.”

Now there went, obscurely, no less than three reasons to the quick shaping of this decision.  In the first place, Piers had glanced over his father’s letter, and saw in it matter for long reflection.  Secondly, his headache was declared, and he would be better alone for the evening.  Thirdly, he shrank from meeting Miss Derwent.  And this last was the predominant motive.  Letter and headache notwithstanding, he would have joined the ladies at dinner but for the presence of their guest.  An inexplicable irritation all at once possessed him; a grotesque resentment of Miss Derwent’s arrival.

Why should she have come just when he wanted to work harder than ever?  That was how things happened—­the perversity of circumstance!  She would be at every meal for at least a week; he must needs talk with her, look at her, think about her.  His annoyance became so acute that he tramped nervously about the floor, muttering maledictions.

It passed.  A cup of tea brought him to his right mind, and he no longer saw the event in such exaggerated colours.  But he was glad of his decision to spend the evening alone.

His father’s letter had come at the right moment; in some degree it allayed the worry caused by his brother Daniel’s talk this morning.  Jerome Otway wrote, as usual, briefly, on the large letter-paper he always used; his bold hand, full of a certain character, demanded space.  He began by congratulating Piers on the completion of his one-and-twentieth year.  “I am late, but had not forgotten the day; it