“He would be delighted to see you!” cried Piers, his face glowing.  “Let me know before—­let me write——­”

“Is he quite alone?”

“No, his wife—­my stepmother—­is living.”

Irene’s quick perception interpreted the change of note.

“It would really be very interesting—­if I can manage to get so far,” she said, less impulsively.

They walked the length of the great avenue at Nonsuch, and back again in the golden light of the west.  Piers Otway disregarded the beauty of earth and sky, he had eyes for nothing but the face and form beside him.  At dinner, made dull by Hannaford’s presence, he lived still in the dream of his delight, listening only when Irene spoke, speaking only when she addressed him, which she did several times.  The meal over, he sought an excuse for spending the next hour in the drawing-room; but Mrs. Hannaford, unconscious of any change in his habits, offered no invitation, and he stole silently away.

He did not light his lamp, but sat in the dim afterglow till it faded through dusk into dark.  He sat without movement, in an enchanted reverie.  And when night had fallen, he suddenly threw off his clothes and got into bed, where for hours he lay dreaming in wakefulness.

He rose at eight the next morning, and would, under ordinary circumstances, have taken a book till breakfast.  But no book could hold him, for he had already looked from the window, and in the garden below had seen Irene.  Panting with the haste he had made to finish his toilet, he stepped towards her.

“Three hours’ work already, I suppose,” she said, as they shook hands.

“Unfortunately, not one.  I overslept myself.”

“Come, that’s reasonable!  There’s hope of you.  Tell me about this examination.  What are the subjects?”

He expounded the matter as they walked up and down.  It led to a question regarding the possibilities of such a career as he had in view.

“To tell the truth, I haven’t thought much about that,” said Piers, with wandering look.  “My idea was, I fancy, to get a means of earning my living which would leave me a good deal of time for private work.”

“What, literary work?”

“No; I didn’t think of writing.  I like study for its own sake.”

“Then you have no ambitions, of the common kind?”

“Well, perhaps not.  I suppose I have been influenced by my father’s talk about that kind of thing.”

“To be sure.”

He noticed a shrinking movement in Miss Derwent and saw that Hannaford was approaching.  This dislike of the man, involuntarily betrayed, gave Piers an exquisite pleasure.  Not only because it showed they had a strong feeling in common; it would have delighted him in any case, for he was jealous of any human being who approached Irene.

Hannaford made known at breakfast that he was leaving home again that afternoon, and might be absent for several days.  A sensitive person must have felt the secret satisfaction caused all round the table by this announcement; Hannaford, whether he noticed it or not, was completely indifferent; certain letters he had received took most of his attention during the meal.  One of them related to an appointment in London which he was trying to obtain; the news was favourable, and it cheered him.