He did not much reflect upon the course of his life hitherto, with its false starts, its wavering; he had not experience enough to understand their significance.  Of course his father was mainly responsible for what had so far happened.  Jerome Otway, whilst deciding that this youngest son of his should be set in the sober way of commerce, to advance himself, if fate pleased, through recognised grades of social respectability, was by no means careful to hide from the lad his own rooted contempt of such ideals.  Nothing could have been more inconsistent than the old agitator’s behaviour in attempting to discharge this practical duty.  That he meant well was all one could say of him; for it was not permissible to suppose Jerome Otway defective in intelligence.  Perhaps the outcome of solicitude in the case of his two elder sons had so far discouraged him, that, on the first symptoms of instability, he ceased to regard Piers as within his influence.

Piers, this morning, had a terrible sense of loneliness, of abandonment.  The one certainty by which he had lived, his delight in books, his resolve to become erudite, now of a sudden vanished.  He did not know himself; he was in a strange world, and bewildered.  Nay, he was suffering anguish.

Why had Miss Derwent disregarded him at breakfast?  He must have offended her last night.  And that could only be in one way, by neglecting his work to loiter about the drawing-room.  She had respected him at all events; now, no doubt she fancied he had not deserved her respect.

This magnificent piece of self-torturing logic sufficed to occupy him all the morning.

At luncheon-time he was careful not to come down before the bell rang.  As he prepared himself, the glass showed a drawn visage, heavy eyes; he thought he was uglier than ever.

Descending, he heard no voices.  With tremors he stepped into the dining-room, and there sat Mrs. Hannaford alone.

“They have gone off for the day,” she said, with a kind look.  “To Dorking, and Leith Hill, and I don’t know where.”

Piers felt a stab through the heart.  He stammered something about a hope that they would enjoy themselves.  The meal passed very silently, for Mrs. Hannaford was meditative.  She paid unusual attention to Piers, trying to tempt his appetite; but with difficulty he swallowed a mouthful.  And, the meal over, he returned at once to his room.

About four o’clock—­he was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling—­a knock aroused him.  The servant opened the door.

“A gentleman wanting to see you, sir—­Mr. Daniel Otway.”

Piers was glad.  He would have welcomed any visitor.  When Daniel—­ who was better dressed than the other day—­came into the room, Piers shook hands warmly with him.

“Delightful spot!” exclaimed the elder, with more than his accustomed suavity.  “Charming little house!—­I hope I shan’t be wasting your time?”