She held studiously aloof from him, and since the interview in the churchyard had given no sign that she was aware of his existence. Many men would have been discouraged by this contemptuous silence; but not so Beaumont, who never saw discourtesy in anyone of whom he wanted to make use. Hitherto Patience had been a mere cipher in his eyes; but now, since his discovery of the existence of her son, and since he had learned the jealously-guarded secret of the squire, she suddenly became an important person; for it was through her he hoped to secure his ends--ends calculated to benefit himself alone. The only way by which he could hope to gain her ear was through her love for their son, hence his explanation on the stairs. Now, after putting away his painting utensils, he lighted a cigarette, and strolled easily along to the housekeeper's room in order to arrange matters with her. Of the result he had no fear, as he intended to appeal to her motherhood, which appeal, he well knew, would not be neglected by this woman, whose whole life was devoted to her son. Mr. Beaumont was an expert whist-player, and, moreover, admired the game very much. So, in this case, being somewhat doubtful of Patience, yet holding a strong hand, he took an illustration from his favourite game, and said: "When in doubt, play trumps." "It will be a charming game," he murmured, as he knocked at the door of the housekeeper's room, "she is no mean adversary, and hates me like poison--all the more credit to me if I win--as I mean to." Patience Allerby, in her quiet, grey dress, was sitting silent and statuesque by the window, staring out at the rapidly darkening landscape. When Beaumont entered, she looked coldly at him, but neither rose to receive him nor invited him to sit down. Her visitor, however, was not troubled by any sensitive feeling, so threw himself into a comfortable chair that was near the fire, and coolly went on smoking. "I hope you don't mind my cigarette," he said, languidly, "but I can't exist without smoking." "You can't exist without all sorts of luxuries," replied Patience, bitterly, "you're not the man to deny yourself anything." "I had to deny myself a good many things when we were starving in London," said Mr. Beaumont, leisurely. "By the way, I want to speak to you about London." "And I want to speak to you about the squire," she retorted, quickly. "What were you doing following him upstairs?" "Don't distress yourself, my good soul," said the artist, in a coolly aggravating manner. "I'll tell you that later on; meantime, we will talk of Chelsea." "No." "Pardon me--yes. Do you remember how we lived there, you and I, and the visions we used to indulge in? I haven't forgotten it, I assure you, and then Fanny Blake--poor Fanny! she is dead now. I see you gave the boy her surname."