“This doesn’t look much like poverty,” commented Peter. (Francis had only just taken the flat. This was their first visit to him.)
“I don’t think you’d make much of a welfare inspector, old man,” replied Francis. “Fourth floor. No lift. No telephone. Geyser-bath. Shilling-in-the-slot electric-light meter. A complacent landlord. And the relics of the Curzon Street furniture. Guess again about my poverty.”
“And a manservant,” commented Patricia, taking off hat and gloves, sitting down—as by right—at the tea-table.
“Oh, Prout! Prout would pay to stay on, I believe. Francis Gordon and his faithful valet; or the loyalty of an old retainer. . . .”
But Patricia knew that the supercilious remark hid real affection for that “old bounder Prout.” She had seen a good deal of Francis since his return to England; revised many of her early unfavourable opinions about him. The good-will was mutual: though Francis, who still thought “Pat.” rather a commonplace young woman, would have been more than surprised to know how near she had come to divining the change in his mentality—and the real reason for that change.
“Who’s this?” commented Peter, his inspection of the new quarters having brought him to Beatrice’s photograph.
“Friend of mine,” said Francis curtly. “Don’t touch those papers.”
“I won’t touch your precious papers.”
At which little passage of arms, Patricia’s last doubts settled into a comfortable certainty.
Prout, bringing tea, restored harmony. They sat long over it, smoking and talking—mostly, as is the habit of near relations, about themselves.