"I doubt if she would call herself so," said Piers.
The old man's mouth took a bitter, downward curve. "You see, you're rather young," he observed.
Piers' eyes fell away from his abruptly. "Yes, I know," he said, in a tone that seemed to hide more than it expressed.
Sir Beverley continued to stare at him, but he did not lift his eyes again. They were fixed steadily upon the ruby light that shone in the wine in front of him.
The silence lengthened and became oppressive. Sir Beverley still watched Piers' intent face. His lips moved soundlessly, while behind his silence the storm of his wrath gathered.
What did the boy mean by treating him like this? Did he think he would endure to be set aside thus deliberately as one whose words had no weight? Did he think—confound him!—did he think that he had reached his dotage?
A sudden oath escaped him; he banged a furious fist upon the table. He would make himself heard at least.
In the same instant quite unexpectedly Piers leaped to his feet with uplifted hand. "What's that?"
"What do you mean?" thundered Sir Beverley.
Piers' hand descended, gripping his arm. "That, sir, that! Don't you hear?"