Francis! In the light of her new vision, the man no longer seemed despicable. Broken, foolishly ashamed of physical infirmity, irresolute, unwilling or unable to work—one thing, at least, he kept sacred. “Living like a monk!” Her father’s words held the semblance of a sneer; but she, Patricia, understood. And for the first time, understanding him, she respected this man. Intuition gave her the sure clue to his mind: like herself, Francis Gordon had climbed the pinnacles, seen the sex-thing whole. As to her, so to Francis Gordon, Love had vouchsafed the inner meanings; and now, he could accept no substitute for Love. Either the one woman,—pal and childbearer, partner and mistress; or this, the lonely cottage among the lonely woods. . . . But intuition gave Patricia no clue to the heart of the problem, to the man’s renunciation. Blind to everything except her own immediate feelings, she saw only this straggling cottage which might have been a home—this house without its woman. A girl in America! In her ignorance, Patricia hated “that girl.” That girl must know Francis loved her. She corresponded with him; sent him post-cards when he didn’t write regularly. Then why didn’t she marry him? Obviously, because “that girl” was a flirt, a light woman, unworthy of love. . . . By the time she reached the low flint-wall which divided Glen Cottage from the main-road, Patricia had worked herself up into a fine state of resolution. She would talk to Francis; warn him against “that girl” who was ruining his life, warn him against himself. . . . But, unfortunately for resolution, Francis Gordon was out. Prout, standing in the gabled doorway, told her that “Mister Peter had come for Mister Francis, and they’d gone up to Sunflowers.” Patricia paused for one irresolute moment. Then she said, “Do you think you could get me a cup of tea, Prout, I’m feeling rather tired?” “Certainly, Madam. Where will you have it, Madam? In the writing-room?” “Yes, Prout. That will do nicely.” She laid down stick and gauntlets; passed through the sombre oak-panelled hall-way, up the broad shallow staircase, into the long room above. “Here,” thought Patricia, “he ought to be writing.” She looked at the great desk under the window, across it to the swelling turf of Arlsfield Park: she looked at the cushioned settle by the writing-desk, at the fire in the Morgan-tiled grate, at the black-lacquer chairs, at the low bookshelves against the cream-distempered walls, at the écru velvet curtains, the maroon carpet on the floor. Then she walked deliberately to the desk; picked up Beatrice’s photograph. “A fine face,” thought Patricia, “a good face.”