It was Sir Beverley who broke the silence at last with a species of inarticulate snarl peculiarly his own. Piers' dark eyes were instantly upon him, but he said nothing, merely waiting for the words to which this sound was the preface.
Sir Beverley's brow was thunderous. He looked back at Piers with a piercing grim regard.
"Well?" he said. "What fool idea have you got in your brain now? I suppose I've got to hear it sooner or later."
It was not a conciliatory speech, yet Piers received it with no visible resentment. "I don't know that I want to say anything very special," he said, after a moment's thought.
"Oh, don't you?" growled Sir Beverley. "Then what are you thinking about?
Tell me that!"
Piers leaned back in his chair. "I was thinking about Dick Guyes," he said. "He is dining at the Roses' to-night."
"Oh!" said Sir Beverley shortly.
A faint smile came at the corners of Piers' mouth. "He wants to propose to Ina for about the hundred and ninetieth time," he said, "but doesn't know if he can screw himself up to it. I told him not to be such a shy ass. She is only waiting for him to speak."
"Eh?" said Sir Beverley.
A queer little dancing gleam leaped up in Piers' eyes—the gleam that had invariably heralded some piece of especial devilry in the days of his boyhood.