He poured himself out a glass of wine and raised it to his lips.

He looked at Sir Beverley above it with a smile half-sad, half-mocking, and eyes that veiled his soul.

"I should have gone to the devil if you had, sir," he said, "and--probably--I shouldn't have come back." He drank slowly, his eyes still upon Sir Beverley's face.
When he set the glass down again he was openly laughing.

"Besides, you horsewhipped me for something or other, do you remember?
It hurts to be horsewhipped at nineteen." Sir Beverley growled at him inarticulately.
"Yes, I know," said Piers, "But it doesn't affect me so much now.

I'm past the sensitive age." He ate his walnut, drained his glass, and rose.
"You--puppy!" said Sir Beverley, looking up at him.
Piers came to his side.