Sir Beverley glared at him. There were times when he was possessed by an uneasy suspicion that the boy was growing up into a manhood that threatened to overthrow his control. He had a feeling that Piers' submission to his authority had become a matter of choice rather than of necessity. He had inherited his Italian grandmother's fortune, moreover,—a sore point with Sir Beverley who would have repudiated every penny had it been left at his disposal—and was therefore independent.
"I've given you a reason. What more do you want?" he growled.
Piers looked straight at him for a few seconds longer; then broke into his sudden boyish laugh. "All right, sir. When shall we start?" he said.
Sir Beverley stared. "What the devil are you laughing at?" he demanded.
Piers had returned to the peeling of his walnut. "Nothing, sir," he said airily. "At least, nothing more important than your reason for going abroad."
"Damn your impudence!" said Sir Beverley, and then for some reason he too began to smile. "That's settled then. We'll go to Monte Carlo, eh, Piers? You'll like that."
"Do you think I am to be trusted at Monte Carlo?" said Piers.
"I let you go round the world by yourself while you were still an infant, so I almost think I can trust you at Monte Carlo under my own eye," returned Sir Beverley.
Piers was silent. The smile had left his lips. He frowned slightly over his task.
"Well?" said Sir Beverley, suddenly and sharply.