"I am commonly called 'Master Piers' in this
neighbourhood. They won't let me grow up. Rather a shame, what? I'm
nearly twenty-five, and the head-keeper still refers to me in private as
'that dratted boy.'"
She laughed for the first time. Possibly he had angled for that laugh.
"Yes, it is a shame!" she agreed. "But then Sir Beverley is rather old,
isn't he? No doubt it's the comparison that does it."
"He isn't old," said Piers Evesham in sharp contradiction. "He's only
seventy-four. That's not old for an Evesham. He'll go for another twenty
years. There's a saying in our family that if we don't die violently, we
never die at all." He pulled himself up abruptly. "I've given you my name
and history. Won't you tell me yours?"
She hesitated momentarily. "I am only the mother's help at the Vicarage,"
she said then.
"By Jove! I don't envy you." He looked at her with frank interest
notwithstanding. "I suppose you do it for a living," he remarked.
"Personally, I'd sooner sweep a crossing than live in the same house with
that mouthing parson."
"Hush!" she said, but her lips smiled as she said it, a small smile that
would not be denied. "I must go in now. Here you are!" She gave him back
his whip. "Good-bye! Get home quick--and change!"
He turned half-reluctantly; then paused. "You might tell me your name
anyway," he said.
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