he desired to hear would not be imparted to
him that night, and Sir Beverley considered himself somewhat aggrieved in
consequence. He was decidedly short with Piers when he reappeared--a fact
which in no way disturbed his grandson's equanimity. He talked cheery
commonplaces throughout dinner without effort, regardless of Sir
Beverley's discouraging attitude, and it was not till dessert was placed
upon the table that he allowed his conversational energies to flag.

Then indeed, as David finally and ceremoniously withdrew, did he suddenly
seem to awake to the fact that conversation was no longer a vital
necessity, and forthwith dropped into an abrupt, uncompromising silence.

It lasted for a space of minutes during which neither of them stirred or
uttered a syllable, becoming at length ominous as the electric stillness
before the storm.

They came through it characteristically, Sir Beverley staring fixedly
before him under the frown that was seldom wholly absent from his face;
Piers, steady-eyed and intent, keenly watching the futile agonies of a
night-moth among the candles. There was about him a massive, statuesque
look in vivid contrast to the pulsing vitality of a few minutes before.

It was Sir Beverley who broke the silence at last with a species of
inarticulate snarl peculiarly his own. Piers' dark eyes were instantly
upon him, but he said nothing, merely waiting for the words to which this
sound was the preface.

Sir Beverley's brow was thunderous. He looked back at Piers with a
piercing grim regard.

"Well?" he said. "What fool idea have you got in your brain now? I
suppose I've got to hear it sooner or later."

It was not a conciliatory speech, yet Piers received it with no visible
resentment. "I don't know that I want to say anything very special," he
said, after a moment's thought.

"Oh, don't you?" growled Sir Beverley. "Then what are you thinking about?
Tell me that!"

Piers leaned back in his chair. "I was thinking about Dick Guyes," he
said. "He is dining at the Roses' to-night."

"Oh!" said Sir Beverley shortly.

A faint smile came at the corners of Piers' mouth. "He wants to propose
to Ina for about the hundred and ninetieth time," he said, "but doesn't
know if he can screw himself up to it. I told him not to be such a shy
ass. She is only waiting for him to speak."

"Eh?" said Sir Beverley.

A queer little dancing gleam leaped up in Piers' eyes--the gleam that
had invariably heralded som