"Piers! Where the devil are you, Piers?" There was loud exasperation in the query as Sir Beverley halted in the doorway of his grandson's bedroom. There was a moment's pause; then Victor the valet came quickly forward. "But, _Monsieur Pierre_, he bathe himself," he explained, with beady eyes running over the gaunt old figure in the entrance. Sir Beverley growled at him inarticulately and turned away. A moment later he was beating a rousing tattoo on the bathroom-door. "Piers! Let me in! Do you hear? Let me in!" The vigorous splashing within came to a sudden stop. "That you, sir?" called Piers. "Of course it's me!" shouted back Sir Beverley, shaking the door with fierce impatience. "Damn it, let me in! I'll force the door if you don't." "No, don't, sir; don't! I'm coming!" There came the sound of a splashing leap, and bare feet raced across the bathroom floor. The door was wrenched from Sir Beverley's grasp, and flung open. Piers, quite naked, stood back and bowed him in with elaborate ceremony. Sir Beverley entered and glared at him. Piers shut the door and took a flying jump back into the bath. The room was dense with steam. "You don't mind if I go on with my wash, do you?" he said. "I shall be late for dinner if I don't." "What in thunder do you want to boil yourself like this for?" demanded Sir Beverley. Piers, seated with his hands clasped round his knees, looked up with the smile of an infant. "It suits my constitution, sir," he said. "I freeze myself in the morning and boil myself at night--always. By that means I am rendered impervious to all atmospheric changes of temperature." "You're a fool, Piers," said Sir Beverley. Piers laughed, a gay, indifferent laugh. "That all?" he said lightly. "No, it isn't all." Sir Beverley's voice had a curious forced ring, almost as if he were stern in spite of himself. "I came to ask--and I mean to know--" He broke off. "What the devil have you done to your shoulders?" Piers' hands unlocked as if at the touch of a spring. He slipped down backwards into the bath and lay with the water lapping round his black head. His eyes, black also, and very straight and resolute, looked up at Sir Beverley. "Look here, sir; if there's anything you want to know I'll tell you after dinner. I thought--possibly--you'd come to shake hands, or I shouldn't have been in such a hurry to let you in. As it is,--" "Confound you, Piers!" broke in Sir Beverley. "Don't preach to me! Sit up again! Do you hear? Sit up, and let me look at you!" But Piers made no movement to comply. "No, sir; thanks all the same. I don't want to be looked at. Do you mind going now? I'm going to splash." His tone was deliberately jaunty, but it held undoubted determination. He kept his eyes unswervingly on his grandfather's face.