His voice vibrated on a deep note of savagery. He poured out a glass of wine with a hand that shook.
Avery said nothing, but through the silence she was conscious of the hard throbbing of her heart. There was something implacable, something almost cruel, about Piers at that moment. She felt as if he had bruised her without knowing it.
And then in his sudden, bewildering way he left his chair and came to her, stooped boyishly over her. "My darling, you're so awfully pale to-night. Have some wine—to please me!"
She leaned her head back against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "I am a little tired, dear; but I don't want any wine. I shall be all right in the morning."
He laid his cheek against her forehead. "I want you to drink a toast with me. Won't you?"
"We won't drink to each other," she protested, faintly smiling. "It's too like drinking to ourselves."
"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," he declared. "But we won't toast ourselves. We'll drink to the future, Avery, and—" he lowered his voice—"and all it contains. What?"
Her eyes opened quickly, but she did not move. "Why do you say that?"
"What?" he said again very softly.
She was silent.