"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.
Sir Beverley stood his ground, however, his black brows fiercely drawn.
"Get up, Piers!" he ordered, his tone no longer blustering, but curtly
peremptory. "Get up, do you hear?" he added with a gleam of humour. "You
may as well give in at once, you young mule. You'll have to in the end."
"Shall I?" said Piers.
And then suddenly his own sense of humour was kindled again, and he
uttered his boyish laugh.
"We won't quarrel about it, what?" he said, and stretched a wet hand
upwards. "Let's consider the incident closed! There's nothing whatever to
be fashed about."
Sir Beverley's thin lips twitched a little. He pulled at the hand, and
slowly Piers yielded. The water dripped from his shoulders. They gleamed
in the strong light like a piece of faultless statuary, godlike, superbly
strong. But it was upon no splendour of form that Sir Beverley's
attention was focussed.
He spoke after a moment, an odd note of contrition in his voice. "I
didn't mean to mark you like that, boy. It was your own doing of course.
You shouldn't have interfered with me. Still--"
"Oh, rats!" said Piers, beginning to splash.
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