Piers left the room as the words were spoken. He went upstairs with
slower step than usual, head bent. On entering his room (it was
always made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to
the window, and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue,
at the trees and the lawn. He was thinking of the story of Thibaut.
What a fine fellow Dr. Derwent must be! He would like to know him.

To work! He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which
he had already made fair progress. By the bye, he must tell his
father that; the old man would be pleased.

An hour later, he again stood at his window, staring at the clouds
and the blue. Russian was against the grain, somehow, this morning.
He wondered whether Miss Derwent had learnt any during her winter at
Helsingfors.

What a long day was before him! He kept looking at his watch. And,
instead of getting on with his work, he thought and thought again of
the story of Thibaut.


CHAPTER V


At lunch Piers was as silent as at breakfast; he hardly spoke, save
in answer to a chance question from Mrs. Hannaford. His face had an
unwonted expression, a shade of sullenness, a mood rarely seen in
him. Miss Derwent, whose animation more than made up for this
muteness in one of the company, glanced occasionally at Otway, but