window and turned away. The sound must have drawn attention, for
very soon there came a knock at the door, and the servant inquired
of him whether he would have tea, as usual, in his room, or join the
ladies below.

"Bring it here, please," he replied. "And--yes, tell Mrs.
Hannaford that I shall not come down to dinner--you can bring me
anything you like--just a mouthful of something."

Now there went, obscurely, no less than three reasons to the quick
shaping of this decision. In the first place, Piers had glanced over
his father's letter, and saw in it matter for long reflection.
Secondly, his headache was declared, and he would be better alone
for the evening. Thirdly, he shrank from meeting Miss Derwent. And
this last was the predominant motive. Letter and headache
notwithstanding, he would have joined the ladies at dinner but for
the presence of their guest. An inexplicable irritation all at once
possessed him; a grotesque resentment of Miss Derwent's arrival.

Why should she have come just when he wanted to work harder than
ever? That was how things happened--the perversity of
circumstance! She would be at every meal for at least a week; he
must needs talk with her, look at her, think about her. His
annoyance became so acute that he tramped nervously about the floor,
muttering maledictions.

It passed. A cup of tea brought him to his right mind, and he no
longer saw the event in such exaggerated colours. But he was glad of
his decision to spend the evening alone.