David departed at as high a rate of speed as decorum would permit.
During his absence Sir Beverley set himself rigidly to recover his normal demeanour. The encounter had shaken him, shaken him badly; but he was not the man to yield to physical weakness. He fought it with angry determination.
Before David's reappearance he had succeeded in controlling his gasping breath, though the hand with which he helped himself shook very perceptibly.
There were two cups on the tray. David lingered.
"You can go," said Sir Beverley.
David cocked one eyebrow in deferential enquiry. "Master Piers in the garden, sir?" he ventured. "Shall I find him?"
"No!" snapped Sir Beverley.
"Very good, sir." David turned regretfully to the door. "Shall I keep the coffee hot, Sir Beverley?" he asked, as he reached it, with what was almost a pleading note in his voice.
Sir Beverley's frown became as menacing as a thunder-cloud. "No!" he shouted.
David nodded in melancholy submission and withdrew.