Otway was biting a blade of grass; he smiled and said nothing.  Mrs. Borisoff glanced from him to Irene, who also was smiling, but looked half vexed.

“How can it be good, for health or anything else?” Miss Derwent asked suddenly, turning to the speaker.

“Oh, we couldn’t do without fighting.  It’s in human nature.”

“In uncivilised human nature, yes.”

“But really, you know,” urged March, with good-natured deference, “it wouldn’t do to civilise away pluck—­courage—­heroism—­ whatever one likes to call it.”

“Of course it wouldn’t.  But what has pluck or heroism to do with bloodshed?  How can anyone imagine that courage is only shown in fighting?  I don’t happen to have been in a battle, but one knows very well how easy it must be for any coward or brute, excited to madness, to become what’s called a hero.  Heroism is noble courage in ordinary life.  Are you serious in thinking that life offers no opportunities for it?”

“Well—­it’s not quite the same thing——­”

“Happily, not!  It’s a vastly better thing.  Every day some braver deed is done by plain men and women—­yes, women, if you please—­ than was ever known on the battle-field.  One only hears of them now and then.  On the railway—­on the sea—­in the hospital—­in burning houses—­in accidents of road and street—­are there no opportunities for courage?  In the commonest everyday home life, doesn’t any man or woman have endless chances of being brave or a coward?  And this is civilised courage, not the fury of a bull at a red rag.”

Piers Otway had ceased to nibble his blade of grass; his eyes were fixed on Irene.  When she had made a sudden end of speaking, when she smiled her apology for the fervour forbidden in polite converse, he still gazed at her, self-oblivious.  Helen Borisoff watched him, askance.

“Let us go in and have some tea,” she said, rising abruptly.

Soon after, March said good-bye, a definite good-bye; he was going to another part of England.  With all the grace of his caste he withdrew from a circle, in which, temptations notwithstanding, he had not felt quite at ease.  Riding down the dale through a sunny shower, he was refreshed and himself again.

“Where do you put up to-night?” asked Helen of Otway, turning to him, when the other man had gone, with a brusque familiarity.

“At the inn down in Redmire.”

“And what do you do to-morrow?”

“Go to see the falls at Aysgarth, for one thing.  There’s been rain up on the hills; the river will be grand.”

“Perhaps we shall be there.”

When Piers had left them, Helen said to her friend

“I wanted to ask him to stay and dine—­but I didn’t know whether you would like it.”

“I?  I am not the hostess.”

“No, but you have humours, Irene.  One has to be careful.”

Irene knitted her brows, and stood for a moment with face half averted.