General Grampound and Mr Boxall were non-smokers, and as Mr Boxall was also a teetotaler, and the General was talking politics, Dicky Fanshawe found things rather dull in the dining-room when the ladies had withdrawn. Things were almost as dull in the drawing-room, for Lady Seagrave was deaf, and Lady Molyneux was stupid. I must have presented Patsy very badly if you have not discovered that he was the possessor of an “eye”—the eye of an observer. The faculty of observation given to him by nature and developed amongst the wild things of the woods was exercised to the full amidst the new surroundings in which he found himself. He had sized up Mr Boxall. He had overheard the conversation between General Grampound and his nephew; he, whilst circulating with dishes and plates behind the chairs of the guests at table, had gauged the relationship of each to each. Though half their conversation was Greek to him, the falsity of it was not; and there was not a glance between Violet and Dicky, a side glance of Mr Boxall’s, a grimace of General Grampound’s, that escaped the awful eye of Patsy. These preoccupations did not, however, interfere in the least with his occupations and duties, such as handing plates and dishes, devouring half a neglected custard on its way to the kitchen, and stuffing his trousers pockets with fondants and nuts. As the people in the drawing-room were seated, Lady Molyneux at the table turning over the leaves of an album, Violet Lestrange by the fire gazing at the burning logs and Lady Seagrave nodding in her easy-chair opposite Violet, Patsy entered with a tray containing coffee. “The childer are in the nursery, miss,” said Patsy in a low tone, as he presented the tray to Violet. There was something in the tone of his voice that said much more than the simple words implied. In fact, if Patsy had said, “It’s tired to death you are with these ould women, and it’s I that am sorry for you,” his meaning would not have been plainer. Yet there was nothing disrespectful in his tone at all. “Thank you, Patsy,” said Violet, taking her cup. Then, without tasting it, she laid it on a table near by. “I think I will run up and say good-night to the children,” said she, rising. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Not at all,” replied Lady Seagrave. “Give them my love, and tell them I am pleased they have managed for one day to behave themselves.” “I will,” said Violet, and she departed. Scarcely had she vanished upstairs than the dining-room door opened and Dicky Fanshawe came out. Patsy was lingering about in the hall, and Dicky called him. “Which is the way to the ‘scrubbery,’ Patsy?” said he. “I want to smoke a cigar.” “This way, sir,” said Patsy, leading the way down a passage, through a swing-door, down another passage, to a door that was bolted and which he opened. “Leave the door open,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I will shut it when I come in.”