He met her eyes with his own as if he would beat them back. "Aren't you generous enough to remind me that but for your timely interference I should have beaten my own dog to death only yesterday? You were almost ready to flog me for it at the time."
"Oh, that!" Avery said, looking away again. "Yes, of course I might remind you of that if I wanted to be personal; but, you see,—I don't."
"Why not!" said Piers stubbornly. "You were personal enough yesterday."
The dimple, for which Avery was certainly not responsible, appeared suddenly near her mouth. "I am afraid I lost my temper yesterday," she said.
"How wrong of you!" said Piers. "I hope you confessed to the
Reverend Stephen."
She glanced at him again and became grave. "No, I didn't confess to anyone. But I think it's a pity ever to lose one's temper. It involves a waste of power."
"Does it?" said Piers.
"Yes." She nodded with conviction. "We need all the strength we can muster for other things. How is your dog to-day?"
Piers ignored the question. "What other things?" he demanded.
She hesitated.