Avery refrained from smiling, conscious of a gay glance flung in her direction.
"I see you prefer to walk circumspectly," said Piers. "Well, I can do that too. How is Mike? Why isn't he with you?"
"Mike is quite well, thank you," said Avery. "And he is kept chained up."
"What an infernal shame!" burst from Piers. "I'd sooner shoot a dog than keep him on a chain."
"So would I!" said Avery impulsively.
The words were out before she could check them. It was a subject upon which she found it impossible to maintain her reticence.
Piers grinned triumphantly and thrust out a boyish hand. "Shake!" he said. "We are in sympathy!"
But Avery only shook her head at him, refusing to be drawn. "People—plenty of nice people—have no idea of the utter cruelty of it," she said. "They think that if a dog has never known liberty, he is incapable of desiring it. They don't know, they don't realize, the bitterness of life on a chain."
"Don't know and don't care!" declared Piers. "They deserve to be chained up themselves. One day on a chain would teach your nice people quite a lot. But no one cultivates feeling in this valley of dry bones. It isn't the thing nowadays. Let a dog whine his heart out on a chain! Who cares? There's no room for sentimental scruples of that sort. Can't you see the Reverend Stephen smile at the bare idea of extending a little of his precious Christian pity to a dog?" He broke off with a laugh that rang defiantly. "Now it's your turn!" he said.
"My turn?" Avery glanced at his dark, handsome face with a touch of curiosity.