He peeped again.  Irene was standing with her hands linked at the back of her head, seeming to gaze at a lovely cloud above the great elm tree.  This attitude showed her to perfection.  Piers felt sick and dizzy as his eyes fed upon her form.

At an impulse as sudden as irresistible, he pushed up the sash.

“Miss Hannaford!  It’s going to be fine, you see.”

The girls turned to him with surprise.

“Shall you have a walk after lunch?” he continued.

“Certainly,” replied Olga.  “We were just talking about it.”

A moment’s pause—­then: 

“Would you let me go with you?”

“Of course—­if you can really spare the time.”

“Thank you.”

He shut down the window, turned away, stood in an agony of shame.  Why had he done this absurd thing?  Was it not as good as telling them that he had been spying?  Irene’s absolute silence meant disapproval, perhaps annoyance.  And Olga’s remark about his ability to spare time had hinted the same thing:  her tone was not quite natural; she averted her look in speaking.  Idiot that he was!  He had forced his company upon them, when, more likely than not, they much preferred to be alone.  Oh, tactless idiot!  Now they would never be able to walk in the garden without a suspicion that he was observing them.

He all but resolved to pack a travelling-bag and leave home at once. 
It seemed impossible to face Irene at luncheon.

When the bell rang, he stole, slunk, downstairs.  Scarcely had he entered the dining-room, when he began an apology; after all, he could not go this afternoon; he must work; the sky had tempted him, but——­

“Mr. Otway,” said Irene, regarding him with mock sternness, “we don’t allow that kind of thing.  It is shameful vacillation—­I love a long word—­What’s the other word I was trying for?—­still longer—­I mean, tergiversation! it comes from tergum and verso, and means turning the back.  It is rude to turn your back on ladies.”

Piers would have liked to fall at her feet, in his voiceless gratitude.  She had rescued him from his shame, had put an end to all awkwardness, and, instead of merely permitting, had invited his company.

“That decides it, Miss Derwent.  Of course I shall come.  Forgive me for being so uncivil.”

At lunch and during their long walk afterwards, Irene was very gracious to him.  She had never talked with him in such a tone of entire friendliness; all at once they seemed to have become intimate.  Yet there was another change less pleasing to the young man; Irene talked as though either she had become older, or he younger.  She counselled him with serious kindness, urged him to make rational rules about study and recreation.

“You’re overdoing it, you know.  To-day you don’t look very well.”

“I had no sleep last night,” he replied abruptly, shunning her gaze.

“That’s bad.  You weren’t so foolish as to try to make up for lost time?”