"Oh, I can't! I can't!" said Piers quickly.
But Crowther's hand was on his shoulder. He pressed him down. "Do it, lad! It's got to be done," he said.
And with a docility that sat curiously upon him, Piers submitted. He leaned his head on his hand, and wrote.
CHAPTER XI
THE FALLING NIGHT
"You ought to rest, you know," said Tudor. "This sort of thing is downright madness for you."
They were walking together in the February twilight along the long, dark avenue of chestnuts that led to Rodding Abbey. Avery moved with lagging feet that she strove vainly to force to briskness.
"I don't think I do too much," she said. "It isn't good for me to be idle. It makes me—it makes me mope."
The involuntary falter in the words spoke more eloquently than the words themselves, but she went on after a moment with that same forced briskness to which she was trying to compel her dragging limbs. "I only ran down to the Vicarage after lunch because it is Jeanie's birthday. It is no distance across the Park. It seemed absurd to go in state."
"You are not wise," said Tudor in a tone that silenced all argument.