He drew her along the terrace to his sheltered corner, and made her sit down, spreading his newspaper on the stone seat for her accommodation. Her heart went out to him as he performed that small chivalrous act. She could not help it. And suddenly the task before her seemed so monstrous that she felt she could not fulfil it. The tears rushed to her eyes. "What's the matter?" said Piers gently. He sat down beside her, and slipped an encouraging hand through her arm. "Was it something you came out to say? Don't mind me! You don't, do you?" His voice was softly persuasive. He leaned towards her, his dark eyes searching her face. Mrs. Lorimer felt as if she were about to hurt a child. She blew her nose, dried her eyes, and took the brown hand very tightly between her own. "My dear, I'm so sorry for you--so sorry for you both!" she said. A curious little glint came and went in the eyes that watched her. Piers' fingers closed slowly upon hers. "I've got to clear out, what?" he said. She nodded mutely; she could not say it. He was silent awhile; then: "All right," he said. "I'll go this afternoon." His voice was dead level, wholly emotionless, but for a few seconds his grip taxed her endurance to the utmost. Then, abruptly, it relaxed. He bent his black head and kissed the nervous little hands that were clasped upon his own. "Don't you fret now!" he said, with an odd kindness that was to her more pathetic than any appeal for sympathy. "You've got enough burdens of your own to bear without shouldering ours. How is Jeanie?" Mrs. Lorimer choked down a sob. "She isn't a bit well. She has a cold and such a racking cough. I'm keeping her in bed." "I'm awfully sorry," said Piers steadily. "Give her my love! And look here, when Avery is well enough, let them go away together, will you? It will do them both good." "It's dear of you to think of it," said Mrs. Lorimer wistfully. "Yes, it did do Jeanie good in the autumn. But Avery--" "It will do Avery good too," he said. "She can take that cottage at Stanbury Cliffs for the whole summer if she likes. Tell her to! And look here! Will you take her a message from me?" "A written message?" asked Mrs. Lorimer. He pulled out a pocket-book. "Six words," he said. He scrawled them, tore out the leaf and gave it to her, holding it up before her eyes that she might read it. "Good-bye till you send for me. Piers." "That's all," he said. "Thanks awfully. She'll understand that. And now--I say, you're not going to cry any more, are you?" He shook his head at her with a laugh in his eyes. "You really mustn't. You're much too tender-hearted. I say, it was a pity about the baby, what? I thought the baby might have made a difference. But it'll be all the same presently. She's wanting me really. I've known that ever since that night--you know--ever since I held her in my arms."