grew
remarkably talkative. Miss Derwent mentioned his father, declared an
interest in Jerome Otway, and this was a subject on which Piers could
always discourse to friendly hearers. This evening he did so with
exceptional fervour, abounded in reminiscences, rose at moments to
enthusiasm. His companions were impressed; to Irene it was an
unexpected revelation of character. She had imagined young Otway dry
and rather conventional, perhaps conceited; she found him impassioned
and an idealist, full of hero-worship, devoted to his father's name and
fame.

"And he lives all the year round in that out-of-the-way place?" she
asked. "I must make a pilgrimage to Hawes. Would he be annoyed? I could
tell him about his old friends at Helsingfors----"

"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
examinati