Piers left the room as the words were spoken.  He went upstairs with slower step than usual, head bent.  On entering his room (it was always made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to the window, and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue, at the trees and the lawn.  He was thinking of the story of Thibaut.  What a fine fellow Dr. Derwent must be!  He would like to know him.

To work!  He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which he had already made fair progress.  By the bye, he must tell his father that; the old man would be pleased.

An hour later, he again stood at his window, staring at the clouds and the blue.  Russian was against the grain, somehow, this morning.  He wondered whether Miss Derwent had learnt any during her winter at Helsingfors.

What a long day was before him!  He kept looking at his watch.  And, instead of getting on with his work, he thought and thought again of the story of Thibaut.

CHAPTER V

At lunch Piers was as silent as at breakfast; he hardly spoke, save in answer to a chance question from Mrs. Hannaford.  His face had an unwonted expression, a shade of sullenness, a mood rarely seen in him.  Miss Derwent, whose animation more than made up for this muteness in one of the company, glanced occasionally at Otway, but did not address him.

As his habit was, he went out for an afternoon walk, and returned with no brighter countenance.  On the first landing of the staircase, as he stole softly to his room, he came face to face with Miss Derwent, descending.

“We are going to have tea in the garden,” she exclaimed, with the friendliest look and tone.

“Are you?  It will be enjoyable—­it’s so warm and sunny.”

“You will come, of course?”

“I’m sorry—­I have too much to do.”

He blundered out the words with hot embarrassment, and would have passed on.  Irene did not permit it.

“But you have been working all the morning?”

“Oh, yes——­”

“Since when?”

“Since about—­oh, five o’clock——­”

“Then you have already worked something like eight hours, Mr. Otway.  How many more do you think of working?”

“Five or six, I hope,” Piers answered, finding courage to look into her face, and trying to smile.

“Mr. Otway,” she rejoined, with an air of self-possession which made him feel like a rebuked schoolboy, “I prophesy that you will come to grief over your examination.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Derwent,” he said, with the firmness of desperation, as he felt his face grow red under her gaze.

“I am the daughter of a medical man.  Prescriptions are in my blood.  Allow me to tell you that you have worked enough for one day, and that it is your plain duty to come and have tea in the garden.”

So serious was the note of interest which blended with her natural gaiety as she spoke these words that Piers felt his nerves thrill with delight.  He was able to meet her eyes, and to respond in becoming terms.