Reverend Stephen for protection. No, this was a woman, not an owl. Her
name is Denys--Mrs. Denys she was careful to inform me. They've started a
mother's help at the Vicarage. None too soon I should say. Who wouldn't
be a mother's help in that establishment?"

Sir Beverley uttered a dry laugh. "Daresay she knows how to feather her
own nest. Most of 'em do."

"She knows how to keep her head in an emergency, anyhow," remarked Piers.

"Feline instinct," jeered Sir Beverley.

Piers looked across with a laugh in his dark eyes. "And feline pluck,
sir," he maintained.

Sir Beverley scowled at him. He could never brook an argument. "Oh, get
away, Piers!" he said. "You talk like a fool."

Piers turned his whole attention to devouring crumpets, and there fell a
lengthy silence. He rose finally to set down his empty plate and help
himself to some more tea.

"That stuff is poisonous by now," said Sir Beverley.

"It won't poison me," said Piers.

He drank it, and returned to the hearth-rug. "I suppose I may smoke?" he
said, with a touch of restraint.

Sir Beverley was lying back in his chair, gazing straight up at him.