Jeanie's hand came up and softly stroked his face. "I wish I could get it for you," she said.
"Bless you, sweetheart!" said Piers. "You don't so much as know what it is, do you?"
"Yes, I do," said Jeanie. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking up into his face with all her child's soul shining in her eyes. "It's—Aunt Avery; isn't it?"
"How did you know?" said Piers.
"I don't know," said Jeanie. "It just—came to me—that day in the schoolroom when you talked about the ticket of leave. You were unhappy that day, weren't you?"
"Yes," said Piers. He added after a moment, "You see, I'm not good enough for her."
"Not good enough!" Jeanie's face became incredulous and a little distressed. "I'm sure—she—doesn't think that," she said.
"She doesn't know me properly," said Piers. "Nor do you. If you did, you'd be shocked,—you'd be horrified."
He spoke recklessly, almost defiantly; but Jeanie only stretched up a thin arm and wound it about his neck. "Never!" she told him softly. "No, never!"
He held her to him; but he would not be silenced. "I assure you, I'm no saint," he said. "I feel more like a devil sometimes. I've done bad things, Jeanie, I can't tell you how bad. It would only hurt you."