"... Please excuse the formality of a call. I am getting old, and these hilly roads try my nerves. We hope you will all come over to lunch on Wednesday, at one o'clock. I shall be pleased to meet Miss Miggs again, and to make the acquaintance of your young friend. The carriage shall call at twelve-thirty. Believe me, my dear Jean, Your attached friend--" "Good for her! We accept with pleasure, of course." "I don't." "Vanna! How disagreeable you can be when you try. Why were you so bleak and crusty to Piers yesterday? I wanted you to be nice." "You told me to keep out of the way, and I did it. I didn't take to him, nor he to me." "Humph! I don't know," Jean considered, her chin resting upon the cup of her hand. "He was a trifle quelled to find you here--that was natural, for he thought I would be alone; but he was impressed. When we came back from our walk you were staring out to sea with such big, sad eyes, and he looked at you, and wondered. You impressed him, Vanna." "You are not to tell him! I forbid you to tell him about me!" Vanna spoke with a headlong impetuosity which surprised herself. She did not understand why she shrank from the idea of Piers Rendall listening to an account of her family history; but the prospect stung, and she could not control her impatience. Jean looked at her with quiet reproach. "I should not dream of such a thing. I shall _never_ speak of it, never--except at your express request." "I'm sorry, dear. I'm very irritable these days. Write your acceptance, and I'll do my utmost to behave. What is she like--this mamma? A female Piers?" "Not one bit. A little shrinking creature, very proper, very dull--in a gentle fashion, appallingly obstinate. She and Miggles together are as good as a play. You'll hear. They'll get entangled in a dual conversation, and all I ask is--don't look at me! Mrs Rendall would never forgive me if I laughed. She's a trying little person, and Piers is sweet to her; never loses his patience. He deserves a halo for that." Vanna raised protesting eyebrows. "Well, I hardly knew my parents, but I have realised the want of them so badly all my life that I can't screw myself up to an access of admiration for a son who is decently polite to his mother. Suppose she does try his patience at times--that's inevitable, I should say, between a young man and an old woman--how many times has she borne and forborne with him; what mountains of patience has she expended on his training? It's not a virtue, it's mere common decency that he should be kind to her now. He would be despicable if he failed."