“Perhaps—­” whispered Piers.

“Perhaps I’ll tell you a secret,” she said still lightly.  “By the way, dear, I found a letter from Mr. Crowther waiting for me.  I put it in your room for you to read.  He writes so kindly.  Wouldn’t you like him to be our first visitor?”

There was a moment’s silence before Piers made answer.

“To be sure,” he said then.  “We mustn’t forget Crowther.  You wrote and told him everything, I suppose?”

“Yes, everything.  He seems very fond of you, Piers.  But you must read his letter.  It concerns you quite as much as it does me.  There!  I am going.  Good-bye!  Come up soon!”

She patted his shoulder and turned away.  Somehow it had not been easy to speak of Crowther.  She had known that in doing so she had introduced an unwelcome subject.  But Crowther was too great a friend to ignore.  She felt that she had treated him somewhat casually already; for it was only the previous week that she had written to tell him of her marriage.

Crowther was in town, studying hard for an examination, and she felt convinced that he would be willing to pay them a visit.  She also knew that for some reason Piers was reluctant to ask him, but she felt that that fact ought not to influence her.  For she owed a debt of gratitude to Crowther which she could never forget.

But all thought of Crowther faded from her mind when she found herself once more in that eerie, tapestry-hung bedroom.  The place had been lighted with candles, but they only seemed to emphasize the gloom.  She wondered how often the last Lady Evesham—­the warm-blooded, passionate Italian woman with her love of the sun and all things beautiful—­had stood as she stood now and shuddered at the dreary splendour of her surroundings.  How homesick she must have been, Avery thought to herself, as she undressed in the flickering candle-light!  How her soul must have yearned for the glittering Southern life she had left!

She thought of Sir Beverley.  He must have been very like Piers in his youth, less fierce, less intense, but in many ways practically the same, giving much and demanding even more, restless and exacting, but withal so lovable, so hard to resist, so infinitely dear.  All her love for Piers throbbed suddenly up to the surface.  How good he was to her!  What would life be without him?  She reproached herself for ingratitude and discontent.  Life was a beautiful thing if only she would have it so.

She knelt down at length by the deep cushioned window-seat and began to pray.  The night was dim and quiet, and as she prayed she gradually forgot the shadows behind her and seemed to lose herself in the immensity of its peace.  She realized as never before that by her love she must prevail.  It was the one weapon, unfailing and invincible, that alone would serve her, when she could rely upon no other.  She knew that he had felt its influence, that there were times when he did instinctive reverence to it, as to that which is holy.  She knew moreover that there was that within him that answered to it as it were involuntarily—­a fiery essence in which his passion had no part which dwelt deep down in his turbulent heart—­a germ of greatness which she knew might blossom into Love Immortal.