Prout, entering with the tea-tray, caught her in the act: she stood there, guiltily, frame in her hand; and the little gray-haired valet in the scrupulously brushed blue clothes stared at her over the rim of his high white collar. He, too, had fingered that photograph-frame; peered not once, but a hundred times, into those clear thoughtful eyes. . . . Prout drew a little table from its corner by the fireplace, set down his tea-tray, arranged a chair. Patricia put back the photograph. “Your tea, Madam,” said Prout; but he made no move to go. “Prout,” began Patricia—and stopped as though she had accosted a stranger by mistake. “Yes, Madam?” There was invitation in the valet’s voice. Still, Patricia hesitated. “You were going to ask, Madam?” She plunged in headlong, “Prout, who is that girl?” “That, Madam, is Miss Cochrane’s photograph”—the old man spoke slowly—“and, if I may be allowed to say so, Madam, it’s a great pity Mister Francis ever met her.” “Why?” Patricia hated herself for asking the question: it meant the breaking-down of barriers, made her the old man’s accomplice. But Prout seemed to take no notice; his voice lost no accent of respect. “Because, Madam, if it hadn’t been for Miss Cochrane, _he_ might have had a chance. What chance has he got now?” The respectful voice rose. “No chance, Madam.” There fell a silence between these two: rules of conduct, honoured for generations, kept both tongue-tied. Patricia looked at her tea-cup, but made no attempt to drink from it: the valet stood stock still, as though awaiting an order. In the game of etiquette, it was the woman’s move. “Tell me more about her,” said Patricia at last. Etiquette went by the board; the valet turned suddenly man, an old man who spoke broken-heartedly about a boy he loved. “Mrs. Jameson, she was the woman for him. I knew it the moment they met. We were on board a steamer, travelling from the Argentine to the West Indies. And I thought, I thought. . . .” “Yes, Prout. You thought. . . .”