"It's as big as a church," she said, in an awed whisper.
Sir Beverley followed them to the front-door, and saw them out into the
night. Gracie waved an ardent farewell from her perch on Piers' shoulder,
and he heard the merry childish laugh more than once after they had
passed from sight.
The night air was chilly, and he turned inwards at length with an
inarticulate growl, and shut the door.
Heavily he tramped across to the old carved settle before the fire, and
dropped down upon it, his whole bearing expressive of utter weariness.
David came in with stealthy footfall and softly replenished the fire.
"Shall I bring the coffee, Sir Beverley?" he asked him.
"No," said Sir Beverley. "I'll ring."
And David effaced himself without sound.
Half an hour passed, and Sir Beverley still sat there motionless as a
statue, with thin lips drawn in a single bitter line, and eyes that gazed
aloofly at the fire. The silence was intense. The hall seemed desolate
as a vault. Over in a corner a grandfather's clock ticked the seconds
away--slowly, monotonously, as though very weary of its task.
Suddenly in the distance there came a faint sound, the opening of a door;
and a breath of night-air, pure and cold, blew in across the stillness.
In a moment there followed a light, elastic step, and Piers came into
view at the other end of the hall.
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