But for shame, he would have bundled together all the books that lay
on his table, and have flung them out of sight.
In the afternoon, he sought a private conversation with Mrs.
Hannaford. It was not easily managed, as Hannaford and Olga were
both at home; but, by watching and waiting, he caught a moment when
the lady stood alone in the garden.
"Do you think," he asked, with tremulous, sudden speech, "that I
might call at Dr. Derwent's?"
"Why not?" was the answer, but given with troubled countenance. "You
mean"--she smiled--"call upon Miss Derwent. There would be no
harm; she is the lady of the house, at present."
"Would she be annoyed?"
"I don't see why. But of course I can't answer for another person in
such things."
Their eyes met. Mrs. Hannaford gazed at him sadly for an instant,
shook her head, and turned away. Piers went back to lonely misery.
Early next day he stole from the house, and went to London. His
business was at the tailor's; he ordered a suit of ceremony--the
frock coat on which his brother Daniel had so pathetically insisted
--and begged that it might be ready at the earliest possible
moment. Next he made certain purchases in haberdashery. Through it
all, he had a most oppressive feeling of self-contempt, which--
Piers was but one-and-twenty--he did not try to analyze. Every
shop-mirror which reflected him seemed to present a malicious
caricature; he hurried away on to the pavement, small, ignoble,
silly.
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