"No, that's not all. My father went to his inn for the night. Early in the morning he was hastily summoned; he must come at once to the house of the Rossignols; something was wrong. He went, and there, in her bed, lay the little woman, just as if asleep, and a smile on her face--but she was dead." Piers had a lump in his throat; he straightened himself, and tried to command his features. Irene, smiling, looked steadily at him. "From that day," she added, "Thibaut has been my father's servant. He wouldn't be anything else. This, he always says, would best have pleased his mother. He will never leave Dr. Derwent. The good Thibaut!" All were silent for a minute; then Piers pushed back his chair. "Work?" said Mrs. Hannaford, with a little note of allusion to last evening. "Work!" Piers replied grimly, his eyes down. "Well, now," exclaimed Irene, turning to her cousin, "what shall we do this splendid morning? Where can we go?" Piers left the room as the words were spoken. He went upstairs with slower step than usual, head bent. On entering his room (it was always made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to the window, and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue, at the trees and the lawn. He was thinking of the story of Thibaut. What a fine fellow Dr. Derwent must be! He would like to know him. To work! He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which he had already made fair progress. By the bye, he must tell his father that; the old man would be pleased. An hour later, he again stood at his window, staring at the clouds and the blue. Russian was against the grain, somehow, this morning. He wondered whether Miss Derwent had learnt any during her winter at Helsingfors. What a long day was before him! He kept looking at his watch. And, instead of getting on with his work, he thought and thought again of the story of Thibaut. CHAPTER V At lunch Piers was as silent as at breakfast; he hardly spoke, save in answer to a chance question from Mrs. Hannaford. His face had an unwonted expression, a shade of sullenness, a mood rarely seen in him. Miss Derwent, whose animation more than made up for this muteness in one of the company, glanced occasionally at Otway, but did not address him. As his habit was, he went out for an afternoon walk, and returned with no brighter countenance. On the first landing of the staircase, as he stole softly to his room, he came face to face with Miss Derwent, descending. "We are going to have tea in the garden," she exclaimed, with the friendliest look and tone. "Are you? It will be enjoyable--it's so warm and sunny." "You will come, of course?" "I'm sorry--I have too much to do." He blundered out the words with hot embarrassment, and would have passed on. Irene did not permit it. "But you have been working all the morning?" "Oh, yes----" "Since when?" "Since about--oh, five o'clock----"