Cheerily Piers' voice made answer. He shut the door behind him and came
forward as he spoke. "Here I am, sir! I'm sorry I'm late. You shouldn't
have waited. You never ought to wait. I'm never in at the right time."

"Confound you, why aren't you then?" burst forth Sir Beverley. "It's easy
to say you're sorry, isn't it?"

"Not always," said Piers.

He came to the old man, bent down over him, slid a boyish arm around
the bent shoulders. "Don't be waxy!" he coaxed. "I couldn't help it
this time."

"Get away, do!" said Sir Beverley, jerking himself irritably from him. "I
detest being pawed about, as you very well know. In Heaven's name, have
your tea, if you want it! I shan't touch any. It's past my time."

"Oh, rot!" said Piers. "If you don't, I shan't."

"Yes, you will." Sir Beverley pointed an imperious hand towards a table
on the other side of the fire. "Go and get it and don't be a fool!"

"I'm not a fool," said Piers.

"Yes, you are--a damn fool!" Sir Beverley returned to his newspaper with
the words. "And you'll never be anything else!" he growled into the
silence that succeeded them.

Piers clattered the tea-things and said nothing. There was no resentment