"Not at all," said Piers. "I came away by the first train I could catch."
"And left her to her trouble!" Crowther's wide brow was a little drawn.
There was even a hint of sternness in his steady eyes.
"Just so," said Piers. "I left her to mourn in peace."
"Didn't you so much as write a line of explanation?" Crowther's voice was troubled, but it held the old kindliness, the old human sympathy.
Piers shook his head, and stared upwards at the ceiling. "Really there was nothing to explain," he said. "She knows me—so awfully well."
"I wonder," said Crowther.
The dark eyes flashed him a derisive glance. "Better than you do, dear old man, though, I admit, I've let you into a few of my most gruesome corners. I couldn't have done it if I hadn't trusted you. You realize that?"
Crowther looked him straight in the face. "That being so, my son," he said, "you needn't be so damned lighthearted for my benefit."
A gleam of haughty surprise drove the smile out of Piers' eyes. He straightened himself sharply. "On my soul, Crowther—" he began; then stopped and leaned back again in his chair. "Oh, all right. I forgot. You say any silly rot you like to me."
"And now and then the truth also," said Crowther.