"Oh, rot!" said Piers. "If you don't, I shan't."
"Yes, you will." Sir Beverley pointed an imperious hand towards a table on the other side of the fire. "Go and get it and don't be a fool!"
"I'm not a fool," said Piers.
"Yes, you are—a damn fool!" Sir Beverley returned to his newspaper with the words. "And you'll never be anything else!" he growled into the silence that succeeded them.
Piers clattered the tea-things and said nothing. There was no resentment visible upon his sensitive, olive face, however. He looked perfectly contented. He turned round after a few seconds with a cup of steaming tea in his hand. He crossed the hearth and set it on the table at Sir Beverley's elbow.
"That's just as you like it, sir," he urged. "Have it—just to please me!"
"Take it away!" said Sir Beverley, without raising his eyes.
"It's only ten minutes late after all," said Piers, with all meekness. "I wish you hadn't waited, though it was jolly decent of you. You weren't anxious of course? You know I always turn up some time."
"Anxious!" echoed Sir Beverley. "About a cub like you! You flatter yourself, my good Piers."
Piers laughed a little and stooped over the blaze. Sir Beverley read on for a few moments, then very suddenly and not without violence crumpled his paper and flung it on the ground.