“May I sit down by you?”

“Pray do.”

He remarked nothing of her coldness; he was conscious only of her presence, of the perfume which breathed from her and made his heart faint with longing.

Irene again glanced at him, and her countenance was troubled.  She looked to left and right, sure that they were not overheard, and addressed him with quick directness.

“Where did you dine, Mr. Otway?”

“Dine?—­Oh, at a restaurant, with one of my brothers and his wife.”

“Did your brother and his wife accompany you to this house?”

Piers was startled.  He gazed into her face, and Irene allowed him to meet her eyes, which reminded him most unpleasantly of the look he had seen in those of Eustace.

“Why do you ask that, Miss Derwent?” he faltered.

“I will tell you.  I happened to be just behind you as you entered, and couldn’t help hearing the words shouted to you by your brother.  Will you forgive me for mentioning such a thing?  And, as your friend, will you let me say that I think it would be unfortunate if you were introduced to my father this evening?  He is not here yet, but he will be—­I have taken a great liberty, Mr. Otway; but it seemed to me that I had no choice.  When an unpleasant thing has to be done, I always try to do it quickly.”

Piers was no longer red of face.  A terrible sobriety had fallen upon him; his lips quivered; cold currents ran down his spine.  He looked at Irene with the eyes of a dog entreating mercy.

“Had I”—­his dry throat forced him to begin again—­“had I better go now?”

“That is as you think fit.”

Piers stood up, bowed before her, gave her one humble, imploring look, and walked away.

He went down, as though to the supper-room; in a few minutes, he had left the house.  He walked to Waterloo Station, and by the last train returned to Ewell.

CHAPTER IX

At the head of Wensleydale, where rolling moor grows mountainous toward the marches of Yorkshire and Westmorland, stands the little market-town named Hawes.  One winding street of houses and shops, grey, hard-featured, stout against the weather; with little byways climbing to the height above, on which rises the rugged church, stern even in sunshine; its tower, like a stronghold, looking out upon the brooding-place of storms.  Like its inhabitants, the place is harsh of aspect, warm at heart; scornful of graces, its honest solidity speaks the people that built it for their home.  This way and that go forth the well-kept roads, leading to other towns, their sharp tracks shine over the dark moorland, climbing by wind-swept hamlets, by many a lonely farm; dipping into sudden hollows, where streams become cascades, and guiding the wayfarers by high, rocky passes from dale to dale.  A country always impressive by the severe beauty of its outlines; sometimes speaking to the heart in radiant stillness, its moments of repose mirthful sometimes, inspiring joyous life, with the gleams of its vast sky, the sweet, keen breath of its heaths and pastures; but for the most part shadowed, melancholy, an austere nurse of the striving spirit of man, with menace in its mountain-rack, in the rushing voice of its winds and torrents.