Piers was silent.
"The next thing will be that you like him better than me."
"Nonsense, Piers; is that likely?"
Joyce had finished her labours in the little room now, and had seated herself in the window-seat looking out into the grounds.
The moon, nearly at the full, was lifting her round, white face above the low-lying range of hills eastward while the colour of the sunset sky still lingered in the west.
The window was open, and from below Joyce heard the sound of her father's voice and Mr. Arundel's. She knew what they were talking about, and she said:
"Of course I like Mr. Arundel, who is so good about Melville, and came here solely to try to be of use to him: very few people would have taken that trouble."
Piers gave a low rejoinder, which might be taken for consent.
"He says, Piers, a man he knows has a bad influence over Melville, and that he is a relation of his, and that he thinks Melville ought to be sent abroad."
"To do just what he likes, as he always does," was Piers' rejoinder. "It is a shame that Melville should bring so much trouble on us."