Sir Beverley stared at him, angry and incredulous.  “Refused you!  What the devil for?  Wanted my consent, I suppose?  Thought I held the purse-strings, eh?”

“Oh no,” said Piers, again faintly smiling, “she didn’t care a damn about that.  She knows I am not dependent upon you.  But—­she has no use for me, that’s all.”

“No use for you!” Sir Beverley’s voice rose.  “What the—­what the devil does she want then, I should like to know?”

“She doesn’t want anyone,” said Piers.  “At least she thinks she doesn’t.  You see, she’s been married before.”

There was a species of irony in his voice that yet was without bitterness.  He turned back to his aimless stirring of the fire, and there fell a silence between them.

But Sir Beverley’s eyes were fixed upon his grandson’s face in a close, unsparing scrutiny.  “So you thought you might as well come back,” he said at last.

“She made me,” said Piers, without looking round.

“Made you!”

Again Piers nodded.  “I was to tell you from her that she quite understands your attitude; but that you needn’t be anxious, as she has no intention of marrying again.”

“Confound her impudence!” ejaculated Sir Beverley.

“Oh no!” Piers’ voice sounded too tired to be indignant.  “I don’t think you can accuse her of that.  There has never been any flirtation between us.  It wasn’t her fault.  I—­made a fool of myself.  It just happened in the ordinary course of things.”

He ceased to speak, laid down the poker without sound, and sat with clasped hands, staring blindly before him.

Again there fell a silence.  The clock in the corner ticked on with melancholy regularity, the logs hissed and spluttered viciously; but the two men sat in utter stillness, both bowed as if beneath a pressing burden.

One of them moved at last, stretched out a bony, trembling hand, laid it on the other’s shoulder.

“Piers boy,” Sir Beverley said, with slow articulation, “believe me, there’s not a woman on this earth worth grizzling about.  They’re liars and impostors, every one.”

Piers started a little, then with a very boyish movement, he laid his cheek against the old bent fingers.  “My dear sir,” he said, “but you’re a woman-hater!”

“I know,” said Sir Beverley, still in that heavy, fateful fashion.  “And I have reason.  I tell you, boy,—­and I know,—­you would be better off in your coffin than linked to a woman you seriously cared for.  It’s hell on earth—­hell on earth!”

“Or paradise,” muttered Piers.

“A fool’s paradise, boy; a paradise that turns to dust and ashes.”  Sir Beverley’s voice quivered suddenly.  He withdrew his hand to fumble in an inner pocket.  In a moment he stretched it forth again with a key lying on the palm.

“Take that!” he said.  “Open that bureau thing behind you!  Look in the left-hand drawer!  There’s something there for you to see.”