Piers departed without a backward look.  His lips were slightly compressed as he went up the stairs, but before he reached his own room they were softly whistling.

Victor, the valet, who was busily employed in laying out his evening clothes, received him with hands upraised in horror.

"Ah, mais, Monsieur Pierre, how you are wet!”

“Yes, I want a bath,” said Piers.  “Get it quick!  I must be down again in ten minutes.  So scurry, Victor, my lad!”

Victor was a cheery little rotundity of five-and-fifty.  He had had the care of Piers ever since the first fortnight of that young man’s existence, and he worshipped him with a whole-hearted devotion that was in its way sublime.  In his eyes Piers could do no wrong.  He was in fact dearer to him than his own flesh and blood.

He prepared the bath with deft celerity, and hastened back to assist in removing his young master’s boots.  He exclaimed dramatically upon their soaked condition, but Piers was in too great a hurry to give any details regarding the cause of his plight.  He whirled into the bathroom at express speed, and was out again almost before Victor had had time to collect his drenched garments.

Ten minutes after his departure he returned to the hall, the gay whistle still on his lips, and trod a careless measure to its tune as he advanced.

Sir Beverley got up stiffly from his knees on the hearth-rug and turned a scowling face.  “Well, are you decent now?”

“Quite,” said Piers.  He smiled as he said it, a boyish disarming smile.  “Have you had your tea, sir?  Oh, I say what a brick you are!  I didn’t expect that.”

His eyes, travelling downwards, had caught sight of a cup pushed close to the blaze, and a plate of crumpets beside it.

“Or deserve it,” said Sir Beverley grimly.

Piers turned impulsively and took him by the shoulders.  “You’re a dear old chap!” he said.  “Thanks awfully!”

Against its will the hard old mouth relaxed.  “There, boy, there!  What an infant you are!  Sit down and have it for goodness’ sake!  It’ll be dinner-time before you’ve done.”

“You’ve had yours?” said Piers.

“Oh, yes—­yes!” Irritation made itself heard again in Sir Beverley’s voice; he freed himself from his grandson’s hold, though not urgently.  “I’m not so keen on your precious tea,” he said, seating himself again.  “It’s only young milksops like you that have made it fashionable.  When I was young—­”

“Hullo!” broke in Piers.  He had picked up the cup of tea and was sniffing it suspiciously.  “You’ve been doctoring this!” he said.

“You drink it!” ordered Sir Beverley peremptorily.  “I’m not going to have you laid up with rheumatic fever if I know it.  Drink it, Piers!  Do you hear?”

Piers looked for a moment as if he were on the verge of rebellion, then abruptly he raised the cup to his lips and drained it.  He set it down with a shudder of distaste.