Piers broke into a laugh. "Well, come in now you are here! You're not afraid anyhow, what?"
"Oh no!" laughed Gracie. "I'm not a bit afraid. But I'm supposed to be in bed; and if Father finds out I'm not—" She paused with her customary sense of the dramatic.
"Well?" laughed Piers. "What'll happen then?"
"I shall cop it," said Gracie elegantly.
Nevertheless she came to him, and stood on the grass outside the window. The lamplight from within shone on her upturned face with its saucy, confiding smile. Her head was uncovered and gleamed golden in the radiance. She was wearing a very ancient fur cloak belonging to her mother, and she glowed like a rose in the sombre drapery.
Piers stooped to her with hands invitingly outstretched. "Come along, Pixie! We shan't eat you, and I'll take you home on my shoulder afterwards and see you don't get copped."
She uttered a delighted little laugh, and went upwards into his hold like a scrap of floating thistledown.
He lifted her high in his arms, crossed the room with her, and set her down before the old man who still sat at the table, sardonically watching. "Miss Gracie Lorimer!" he said.
"Hullo, child!" growled Sir Beverley.
Gracie looked at him with sparkling, adventurous eyes. As she had told Piers, she was not a bit afraid. After the briefest pause she held out her hand with charming insouciance.