“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. “By Jove,” said Peter—interrupting himself in the middle of a long monologue about advertising—“I almost forgot. We’ve taken a house at Wargrave for a month. Lodden Lodge. It’s rather a decent place. Tennis lawn; river-frontage; bath, h. and c.; usual domestic offices; et cetera et cetera. You are expected to stay with us.” “_Hukkum hai?_ (Is it an order?),” asked Francis. “Oh, we all know you spent three months in India,” chaffed Peter. “Question is: are you coming?” “Of course I’m coming,” said Francis, “and so is Prout—if Patricia doesn’t object.” § 4 “Some car!” thought Peter as he stepped into the front seat; slammed the door home; said “You take her for a bit, Murray,” to the uniformed chauffeur; and acknowledged “Pretty” Bramson’s rather overdone salute with a wave of his hand. They purred out from the factory-gates into Brixton Road; swung first right, then left; headed for Hounslow. Certainly, “some car”—a long, low stream-lined cabriolet, royal-blue in colour, the Crossley cross on her radiator. Peter had discovered her through the advertisement columns of the _Morning Post_; clinched the deal a week before. But his thought did not centre long on the new purchase. It was the Thursday before August Bank Holiday 1914. To get away so early, had meant cramming the week’s work into three and a half days. Still, he could afford to take a rest _now_. For a few minutes, he allowed himself the rare luxury of a dream. Nirvana had arrived! July sales proved it. Nothing could stop their automatic increase. Already, the capital he had sunk was in sight again. Then—what a business he would make it! All over the world, too. . . . India, China, New Zealand, South Africa. He must have his own factory in the States, in Canada; defeat their confounded protective tariffs. . . . “Will you take her now, sir?” asked Murray, as they wriggled out through Hounslow High Street.