rwent grew almost maternal. This,
she pointed out, was the natural result of nerves overstrained. He must
really use common sense. Come now, would he promise?

"I will promise you anything!"

Olga glanced quickly at him from one side; Irene, on the other, looked
away with a slight smile.

"No," she said, "you shall promise Miss Hannaford. She will have you
under observation; whereas you might play tricks with me after I'm
gone. Olga, be strict with this young gentleman. He is well-meaning,
but he vacillates; at times he even tergiversates--a shocking thing."

There was laughter, but Piers suffered. He felt humiliated. Had he been
alone with Miss Derwent, he might have asserted his manhood, and it
would have been _her_ turn to blush, to be confused. He had a couple of
years more than she. The trouble was that he could not feel this
superiority of age; she treated him like a schoolboy, and to himself he
seemed one. Even more than Irene's, he avoided Olga's look, and walked
on shamefaced.

The remaining days, until Miss Derwent departed, were to him a mere
blank of misery. Impossible to open a book, and sleep came only with
uttermost exhaustion. How he passed the hours, he knew not. Spying at
windows, listening for voices, creeping hither and thither in torment
of multiform ignominy, forcing speech when he longed to be silent, not
daring to break silence when his heart seemed bursting with desire to
utter itself--a terrible time. And Irene persevered in her elder-sister
attitude; she was kindness itself, but never seemed to remark a
strangeness in his look and manner. Once he found courage to say that
he would like to know Dr. Derwent; she replied that her father was a
very busy man, but that no doubt some opportunity for their meeting
would arise--and that was all. When the moment came for leave-taking,
Piers tried to put all his soul into a look; but he failed, his eyes
dropped, even as his tongue faltered. And Irene Derwent was gone.

If, in the night that followed, a wish could have put an end to his
existence, Piers would have died. He saw no hope in living, and the
burden seemed intolerable. Love-anguish of one-and-twenty; we smile at
it, but it is anguish all the same, and may break or mould a life.

CHAPTER VII

A week went by, and Piers was as far as ever from resuming his regular
laborious life. One day he spent in London. His father's solicitor had
desired to see him, in the matter of the legacy;