artled. 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 sh