Piers would have liked to fall at her feet, in his voiceless
gratitude. She had rescued him from his shame, had put an end to all
awkwardness, and, instead of merely permitting, had invited his
company.

"That decides it, Miss Derwent. Of course I shall come. Forgive me
for being so uncivil."

At lunch and during their long walk afterwards, Irene was very
gracious to him. She had never talked with him in such a tone of
entire friendliness; all at once they seemed to have become
intimate. Yet there was another change less pleasing to the young
man; Irene talked as though either she had become older, or he
younger. She counselled him with serious kindness, urged him to make
rational rules about study and recreation.

"You're overdoing it, you know. To-day you don't look very well."

"I had no sleep last night," he replied abruptly, shunning her gaze.

"That's bad. You weren't so foolish as to try to make up for lost
time?"

"No, no! I _couldn't_ sleep."

He reddened, hung his head. Miss Derwent grew almost maternal. This,
she pointed out, was the natural result of nerves overstrained. He
must really use common sense. Come now, would he promise?