i

Patricia thought: How difficult it is to be good! And it's so easy to be wicked. Some people want to be wicked, and can't. It's ... it's easy.

She was standing in her little brown room and looking at her own reflection in the mirror with the gilded frame. And as she looked at herself, she saw a hardness come, and a new glitter in her eye. And it was then that she realised how easy it was to be wicked, and how difficult to be good. How easy it was to drift into wickedness that made one defiant afterwards, and a little afraid! That made one continue avid of excitement!

Patricia felt that she could not keep still. Such nervous restlessness as she was now experiencing was strange; but she could not keep still. If she sat down she found herself immediately again standing, moving about the room; and stopping, lost in a dream. She could not think consecutively. If she began to think, ridiculous words came into her head from nowhere, and fragments of the speech of somebody else; and cross currents of her own thought interrupted and distracted her attention.

"I'm going mad!" she suddenly thought. And from somewhere came the comment, "Ah, I've noticed that, have I?... Pengewith.... As if it could be helped.... Monty was ... of course, women ... I wonder how the name Saskatchewan is really pronounced: I suppose it's.... Yes, mad. Mad, because all this ... I could go to Africa, Biskra—isn't that where they go? Or Samarkand.... What beautiful names they have. ... I'd like to go travelling on and on, and the moon at night shining on the desert.... All very quiet, and stars, and peace.... Horrible insects.... Stop! Stop!"

Patricia put her hands to her ears, as if in that way to check the nightmare of her thoughts. She forced herself to sit quietly down, to take up a book. Every noise in the house and street was subdued; and after a few moments her eyes would not attend to the page, and her brain would not accept the meaning of the printed word; and these idiotic thoughts came stealthily back as little devils might have done. She was trying hard not to think of something in particular. She was trying not to think of what had happened on the previous evening, of what might still happen. She did not want to face her own actions, or their consequences; and all these devilish little thoughts that so frightened her came because she had as it were locked up the only thing she wanted most desperately to think about, and was refusing to let her mind have free play.

ii

In the afternoon there was a noise at the door, and Lucy put in a pink face. She was washed, and she looked mysterious. A finger was to her lips.

"Some'dy downstairs," she whispered, her lips framing the words. "Miss Roberts. Shall I let her come up?"

Patricia welcomed the thought of a visitor. She brightened at once.

"Oh, anybody!" she cried, with a great breath of relief at the prospect of escape from her solitude, and the gnawing thoughts to which she was offering so steadfast a resistance.

"Right!" cried Lucy, who had been secret from a sense of diplomacy. Patricia, hastily scrambling useless papers together, heard Lucy trample down to the front door and send Amy up; and so she went out on to the dark landing to guide and exhort her friend. She was really delighted to see the dim form which she knew to be that of Amy rounding the difficult corner and achieving the ascent. Eagerly she stretched a hand to bring her friend within the tiny, ugly room.

"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Come in. I'm in a muddle; but come in."

"What stairs!" Patricia heard Amy gasp. Then she saw the visitor throw off a cloak and a light hat, and toss her hair. There was a moment's silence as they scrutinised each other. "Patricia, I had to come and see you. You didn't write, or anything." The agitation which Patricia was feeling was as nothing to the agitation which Amy showed. She looked ghastly, and the climb had made her breathe gaspingly. Her lips looked blue.

"I ought to have come." Patricia was filled with remorse.

"No. I—felt I had to see you after the other day. You know, the day you came to see me, and Harry Greenlees came."

"Well!" Patricia gave a startled exclamation. Then she sat down and began to laugh. "What ages ago it seems!" Really, it was incredible! She had almost forgotten the studio and Amy's warning and Harry's arrival. So much had happened in the interval, so poignant had been her emotions, that the reference made her breathless. "Well!"

"I heard Harry was going abroad," pursued Amy, again with that sharp scrutiny. "I was afraid...."

"Afraid? Oh, that I might be going, too! But why, Amy? I should have thought you would have known ... Nothing could happen to me—ever—that I didn't ... I thought ... I thought a girl ought to be free to live with any man she chose ... to see...."

Patricia was half-laughing. For this moment she was malicious in the ridicule of such singular concern. She was immediately to learn the occasion of it. Amy, who sat in the only armchair in the room, which had been covered with horsehair, and super-covered (as it were) by a loose envelope that was washable, looked disagreeably back at Patricia in recognition of such levity. Her face, under the stress of recent events, was losing its clearness, and was developing a rough greyness of colour. Her eyes protruded, and the rims of them were faintly pink. Amy was ageing quickly. By thirty she might be unsightly. She was old, and stale, and without any sort of colour or imagination or quality. She repelled Patricia, as a poor relation might have repelled a busy man in difficulties, or as a sick person repels a healthy one.

"I know," she whispered. "I've tried it. I went down to the country with Jack. But I couldn't stand it. It was awful. I left him as soon as we got there. Patricia, I couldn't have stayed there with him."

Patricia wheeled round at the incredible announcement. She stared at her friend. An exclamation burst from her lips.

"But Jack!" she cried. "Jack!"

Amy misunderstood her; she thought Patricia was still in a state to harp on the inconsiderateness to Jack.

"Oh, he doesn't matter. He's quite all right——."

"I was thinking ... Yes ... I expect he's all right; but I was thinking...." stammered Patricia. She was aghast. "Why on earth, if you were going, did you go with somebody who bores you? Surely it was madness! Oh, my dear! ... Amy, you must admit that Jack...."

"I know. I know. He is idiotic. I don't know why I did it. It seems ridiculous—now. But he kept on saying I ought to go away; and it seemed impossible to go away alone. So I thought—well: he's supposed to love me. If I can bear it, perhaps.... You see, I was in despair. Well, it's no good: that's all. I've been in hell. I got into the next train, leaving him there. I simply went out without telling him, and fortunately caught the only possible train back. It was dreadful to see the train coming, and watch the road in case Jack was coming, too ... I felt insane!"

"So I should think," said Patricia. "Poor Amy!" She had not really any pity for Amy; but she did not know what else to say to this inglorious tale. If she had imagined it, she would have shuddered as at a squalor. She hesitated, her brain active. Then, sharply, she demanded: "Have you seen Jack since?"

Amy nodded, tears in her eyes. She was the picture of lugubriousness. But the colour was rising to her cheeks.

"He says he's finished with me," she pulped. "We've had a flaming row. He was filthy!"

"Good!" cried Patricia, almost with vicious emphasis.

There was a moment's horrified pause. Then Amy, ignoring the ejaculation, continued:

"However, I shall never be rid of him. He isn't the sort. He'll always be thinking I'll change, and be pestering me. He's like a cur. The more you kick him, the closer he sticks. I've only got to whistle. I loathe him. Don't let's talk about Jack. It was only that I had to tell you!" She paused, and then, in a minute, resumed: "Oh, Patricia, I've begun painting again, you'll be glad to hear. I was a fool ever to take any notice of Felix. Of course, you know what the explanation of that was! Mere sexual jealousy. Men simply can't bear a woman to be an artist. It damages their singularity. It was all a part of the sex conspiracy. I might have known! All this upset has revived my ambition. It's done me good, in fact. It's given me impetus. I'm doing something that's going to be really good."

Patricia addressed Amy.

"Amy," she said. "You've finished with Jack. If he hasn't finished with you, you must be finished with him. For a man who will still stick to you after that must be an idiot. He couldn't be any good to you. And if you are going back to painting after swearing as you did that you had done with it, I shall never understand you. It seems preposterous. Why, I can remember—Amy, you were absolutely finished with it. My dear, what's the good? As for sex conspiracy—it's laughable! I think you've been behaving very badly, indeed."

"Indeed!" cried Amy, shocked into vituperation by such an onslaught. "And what about yourself, pray? When it comes to bad behaviour?"

It was unanswerable. Patricia flushed, staring.

At this moment, while the two of them were mutually speechless with active hostility, Lucy, interpreting liberally Patricia's welcome to "anybody," and also possibly rather intrigued by the appearance of the caller, personally ushered into the room a second visitor. It was Claudia. She had crossed the landing with a single impetuous step, and her eagerness brought fresh air into the stuffy little room. Her tallness, her dark complexion, the rich crimson of her astrakhan-trimmed cloak, were all such as to make her distinguished. There was animation in Claudia's face which showed her health and tranquillity. The quick immature grace of her movement was lovely. She was free from all self-consciousness. Only at sight of Amy—stricken by contrast into absolute sickliness of appearance—did she pull up short.

"Oh," she gasped. "I didn't know.... Sorry!"

"Come in!" Even to Patricia it was evident that Claudia's entry had brought radiance to the room. She hurried across to greet her. "This is my friend Amy Roberts—Miss Mayne."

"I'll go," cried Amy, rising from the armchair.

"No, no. Don't be silly." "Oh, don't ... I shall feel...." There were two protests. But Amy was injured, wounded.

"Yes. I've said all I'd got to say. And listened to some plain speaking. Very plain. And I must get back to my studio. I'll astonish everybody yet! I'm an artist, Miss Mayne, and I can't leave my work for long." She fumbled with her cloak.

"But I shall feel I've driven you away!" cried Claudia, with a puzzled smile.

"You needn't." Amy was brusque in the effort to be dignified; and as she flung on her cloak and hat she gave Claudia a frigid smile. "I was just going in any case." And with that she went to the door. "Good-bye."

"Excuse me." Patricia's glance of reassurance led Claudia to remain, and, as the two others disappeared, to remove her own cloak, and to await Patricia's return. She looked quickly round the shabby room—at the typewriter, the table-cover, the rug, the stained wall-paper, and the glass with the gilt frame. Then she went to the window to glance at the dingy outlook, and returned to sniff the gas-fire.

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Claudia, very privately to herself. "The poor thing's stewed alive in smuts up here. It's a horrible place—all mouldy. No wonder she's conceited! I should be, myself. She's a dear! As for the other one—pooh!"

iii

She had barely concluded this soliloquy when Patricia, who had run up the stairs, arrived breathless, and closed the door with a rush. She was completely changed.

"It's lovely of you to come," she cried. "I'm ever so glad. And you came opportunely. I don't know what would have happened. I'd been lecturing Amy, and she was excessively cross. She can't bear the truth—or any criticism. She's very silly!"

"She seemed gloomy," commented Claudia, with some forbearance.

"Oh, she's worse. I couldn't tell you.... You see—" Patricia seated herself, all fire to communicate wisdom—"the poor thing is absolutely mad about herself. She was told some time ago that she wasn't any good as an artist. I admit it was heartless, and I don't know who broke the news. I didn't tell her myself, because I didn't know. I may as well admit—I did the same to your brother, as anybody would have to do—that I tried to like her pictures. They're very strange pictures, and apparently everybody laughs at them. They think she's ... well, no good at all. Well, somebody told her. She was heart-broken. She saw it. She really did see it. She was passionate, and crushed; but she somehow realised that she wasn't any good. That was a week ago. But now she's all changed. She thinks it's a conspiracy. Belief in her own genius has come back—twice it's strength!"

"Recoil!" suggested Claudia, elated.

"Something like that. And she's been behaving atrociously—to a poor man who loves her. I admit that he's an idiot; but still—even idiots have their rights, you'd think! He isn't a lunatic. I don't mean that he's really mad—only in relation to Amy. And it's bad for her. It makes her feel a sort of horrible empty power—that he's always there if she needs him. He's just a dog-like creature, filled with devotion. I like him. He's too good for her. But he's perfectly idiotic about Amy."

"I couldn't fall in love with that girl," said Claudia distinctly. "I could try to like her; because she's your friend. No more. I think she's probably an egoist; and egoism's a bother."

Patricia was pulled up at this comment.

"There's a lot of good in her," she apologetically explained. "I oughtn't to talk unkindly about her. And I'm afraid I'm rather an egoist myself."

"The first thing you've got to do—if you'll try hard to forgive me for saying such an awful impertinence—is to move out of these rooms," said Claudia, with superficial irrelevance.

Again Patricia received a shock. But she recovered and smiled.

"I can't," she answered. "They're cheap." Then her tone became more sober. "I've got no money at all. In fact...." Her lips quivered.

"You couldn't have any money in these rooms," said that distinct voice. "Move out of them. We'll get you some money." Claudia spoke with assurance. Patricia was dazzled.

"But how?" she asked. "I'm desperate for it."

"We'll ask Edgar."

"I couldn't. I think ... I think ... It seems absurd; but I think perhaps I'm just a little afraid of him."

Claudia surveyed her newest friend with astonishment and approval. Her emotion seemed to be almost one of hopeful relief, which surprised Patricia a good deal. Claudia proceeded.

"Oh, that's awfully good!" she cried. "I'm not afraid of him; but I think it's nice of you to be. I'm pleased at that. However, you needn't be afraid of him; because.... Well, what I really came for is to beg you to come home with me for dinner. Could you? Mother and father are having their annual wayzgoose, or beano. It's the anniversary of their wedding. So Edgar and I are dining alone. You needn't change your dress. I shan't. Will you come? Do!"

iv

The two girls had tea together at a cafÉ, and then walked to the Maynes' house, arriving there before six o'clock. Claudia then hastily telephoned to Edgar, leaving Patricia for the necessary few moments to the entertainment of Percy and Pulcinella. Patricia was once again in that delicately cordial room of blue and blue-grey; and the size of the room as well as the purity of its simple comfort was a solace to her. There were very few pictures in the room, and of these the largest was a strong and beautiful landscape by a modern artist, C. J. Holmes, which gave Patricia delight. All else was unaffected and apparently unstudied. A bright fire burned within the noble grate; and a big old clock ticked hollowly, reminding her of the clock in a half-forgotten poem, which said "Ever—Never—Never—Forever."... The room was quite silent except for this ticking and the occasional whispering collapses of fragments of coal. There was an extraordinary peace in this house, and a sense of open space in the sitting-room which was enhanced by the cool tones of the furnishings. Patricia sighed as she sat there alone. The little dog, Pulcinella, a glossy black twisting creature, was exuberant and friendly. Patricia could almost have believed that he recognised her. Percy was more distant. He stared with big steady eyes. But at last he, too, rising from his place, stretched and yawned, and came slowly across to her side. Here, instead of making any advance, he merely sat with his feathery tail straight behind him on the floor, while he contemplated the stranger in silence.

"Percy," said Patricia. "You're awfully proud."

He looked at her relentingly. Patricia slipped to her knees beside him, and the little dog came frisking there also. Percy turned a solemn head, in order to watch the gambollings of Pulcinella, and again yawned. His dignified coquetry was engaging. Then he rubbed his head against Patricia's sleeve.

"I wish I had as little care as you," she whispered. And as she sat there her face grew white. She sprang up, transformed from white to red. Memory of the unknown creature she had been on the previous night came destructively to her mind. Her face hardened. "I oughtn't to be here!" Patricia thought, as the conflict between her memory and this pervading tranquillity sank into her mind. "I'm wicked. I want to be wicked! Claudia—why, Claudia wouldn't want to be my friend at all if she knew all I think and do and want to do. I'm an impostor. I'm not nice at all. I'm wicked." A great stab of misery held her silent, still scarlet. She even took pleasure in hurting herself, in thinking that she was wicked.

While Patricia was yet stricken with the enormity of her own guilty inclination, Claudia came back into the room, and stood with that air of affection that made Patricia soft towards her new and guileless and altogether innocent friend. Claudia pulled a chair up to the fire, and pointed to it.

"That boy will be here in no time," she gaily said.

"Boy? Oh, how strange to...." Patricia checked herself. Almost vaguely, she went on: "I hope he's not coming ... leaving his work." "It'll do him good!" cried Claudia, unexpectedly. "What he wants is.... No, Percy, you mustn't claw!" This last was because Percy was resenting Patricia's neglect and seeking to re-establish their relations. "What Edgar wants is something to save him from work altogether. Work's a great monster."

"I hate it!" acknowledged Patricia. "It's devil-begotten!"

"Edgar's work has made happiness for everybody in this house. Without it, we should be nowhere. We shouldn't exist. But Edgar's the one who gets least out of his work. We're all Old Men of the Sea on his shoulders. I've never thought of that before, by the way. I suppose you didn't happen to think of it, by any chance, and put it into my head?"

"Oh, no," said Patricia naÏvely. "You see, I don't ... don't know Edgar very well."

Claudia gave her a quick side-long glance.

"He knows you pretty well, doesn't he?" she answered. "But of course that's different."

That was the third shock Patricia had received that afternoon from Claudia. She turned as if to answer; but Claudia was moving across the room, and Patricia was left to draw her own inference. The remark had almost seemed to accuse her of injustice to Edgar. And what beyond?

v

They had dined, and were back again in the tranquil sitting-room, all cosily round the fire, with the lights soft and the fire an enormous red glow. Patricia was very subdued. She was happy and unhappy at the same time. The contrast of this evening, and this quiet fireside, with the previous evening's hot and tempting excitement, was impressive; it shook her. She knew that this was in some way better than the other; she felt herself yielding to it upon the one hand as she had done upon the other to passion; and as she knew and remembered, she became confusedly restless. She wondered if the Maynes always spent their evenings quietly, and in such blessed and unendurable tranquillity.

"I couldn't bear to," she thought, with the tears starting into her eyes. "I'm wicked. I must have excitement. I couldn't stand it. I should scream, and make a dash—like Amy running for the train!"

But as if Claudia had guessed what were Patricia's thoughts, she said:

"This is the first evening Edgar and I have both been at home for about six weeks—seven weeks—except that night when you came to dinner." Patricia sighed wearily, her eyes closing in despair at the sense of guilt which oppressed her. There was a moment's silence. In the middle of it, Claudia rose. "Oh, by the way, Edgar. Patricia's hard up. She wants to ask your advice. I promised you'd help her."

"No, no. I don't ..." began Patricia, and looked round for support. But Claudia was no longer in the room. The door was closed. She was alone with Edgar, as one imprisoned; and everything Edgar stood for in her mind was hostile to passion and folly and hot-mouthed temptation.

She could not bring herself to meet his glance. She could look no higher than the shoulders of his dark grey tweed suit. His small and well-shaped feet were opposite her own. He lay back in a chair which was the counterpart of the one in which Patricia sat. Edgar, the maker of this home, who breathed restraint and clear understanding and ridicule of emotional recklessness. She was ashamed and tongue-tied. But one grey tweed suit is very like another, and when Edgar spoke she could not help quickly glancing up, with resentment of his unsusceptibility to the charm which she knew herself to be capable of exercising. He was very brown, and his brown eyes were very honest, and his lips were very clearly and pleasantly moulded, as though he smiled easily. He was smiling now.

"I expect you'd better, hadn't you?" he asked, with perfect gravity and good-humour.

There came into Patricia's heart a trust which was rare, and an irresistible call to candour. It annihilated her resentment, her hostile clinging to the memory of Monty and the fever in her blood which he represented.

"I didn't mean to ask your advice," she said, looking straight at Edgar. "You couldn't advise me. You couldn't understand how I'm placed."

"Of course I couldn't," agreed Edgar. "Unless you'd tell me. Of course, you could do that."

"Are you laughing at me?" demanded Patricia, with sharp anger. Then, the question unsolved, she went on. "It's quite true. I'm coming to the end of my money; and I don't know what to do. I'm not making any money just now: only spending it. And I ought to work."

"What sort of work?" asked Edgar. "What can you do?"

The colour filled Patricia's cheeks. She was again ashamed before him, with the same feeling of shackled personality.

"I'm afraid, nothing," she said, speaking at first with a sort of dry impertinence, and afterwards with rather wistful humility. "Nothing that you would regard as anything. I've been writing. I want to write. I think I've got talent. But ... I'm only a beginner. You see, I was in an office during the War; and I had a little money when my uncle died; and I've sold a few of the things I've written." "What d'you mean by nothing that I should regard as anything?" inquired Edgar. Patricia remained silent, the colour slowly rising, and her heart frozen. She could not withstand his personality, but she was fighting against its approach to herself. "You want to keep on the life of a woman of leisure!" he proceeded, smiling again. He changed his attitude, sitting more upright in his chair. "It's awfully hard to go back to drudgery."

Patricia's heart leapt—at the thought, and at his affectionate kindness.

"I simply couldn't," she cried breathlessly.

"I'm sure you could. You could do anything you chose." There came from those steady eyes a look that was full of encouragement, of sympathy. To Edgar there was no question. He trusted her. It was he who evoked her quality. Patricia found herself agitated in self-abhorrence.

"O-oh!" she cried, in pain. "If you knew...." The painful colour again flooded her cheeks.

"Suppose you tell me," begged Edgar.

"No." Patricia stared into the fire, her hands clasped upon the arm of her chair. She was driven to defiance that shocked herself. "I couldn't. And you couldn't understand. There are all sorts of things in my nature that you couldn't understand. You ... you've got a cold will. You don't shrink and waver. You're not impulsive and ...."

Edgar rose from his chair, his hands in his pockets. He stood looking away from Patricia, as if in deep thought. At last he said:

"Do you resent my will, that you call it cold? Why should you do that? It's unjust. I've no wish but to help you. As a matter of fact, I haven't a cold will. I'm obstinate; and I shrink and waver. But I don't shrink and waver once I've made up my mind. I made up my mind some time ago that I loved you and wanted to marry you, and to help you; and so there's no more hesitation about that."

Patricia was astounded. She turned sharply, her lips parted in amazement. He was in earnest. His words made her heart race. Then anger came—and again shame—and an emotion which she did not analyse.

"Marry? When.... Don't be ridiculous!" cried Patricia.

Edgar looked down at her, apparently as grave and unmoved as before, although his voice was changed.

"Why not?" he asked. "I'm in love with you. Will you marry me?"

Patricia laughed, almost savagely. She was deeply moved, and her present emotion, in conflict with all she had been feeling so recently, made her voice loud and angry, as if she were afraid.

"Love me ... I don't feel that you love me," she said with bitterness. "Something quite different. I feel that you're interested in me——"

"Well, I should hope so!" cried Edgar, apparently amazed. "Isn't that essential?"

"And I don't love you," said Patricia, vehemently. "I don't!" She was still emphatically protesting. "I respect you. I think you're ... I think you're everything that's kind and ... inhuman." She was trying to remain calm, to equal his restraint with her own; and she was failing. The failure gave her a passionate sense of inferiority to him that was intolerable. Suddenly she began to cry, her hands outstretched helplessly before her. "It's no good.... It's no good!" she sobbed through her tears, her little face distorted with the torment of her heart. "I'm ... an awful ... beast!"

Edgar took the outstretched hands in his own, dropping to one knee in order to do so. He was so gentle, so extraordinarily inviting of trust and sincerity and goodness, that Patricia's head came forward for the merest instant, and touched his shoulder, as if there to find relief from her own suffering.

"Do think of it," he urged, his face so near her own, so comprehending, so full of love. "Patricia ...."

She rose in anguish, beating her hands together.

"You think it's so simple. You think it's a question of talking and persuading. You don't know what love is," she said, in this violent, strangled voice. And then, as if indignantly, she added: "Nor do I! Nor do I! I couldn't. I don't know how to love. I'm too much of a beast. I'm too selfish and ugly-hearted! And if you knew anything about my nature you wouldn't want to love me. You'd hate me." And with that she began to dry her eyes, staring away from him, and trembling.

"You're so silly to talk of being wicked," Edgar said. "How are you wicked?" A very faint tinge of humour came into his voice at her persistent remorse. "What's your particular form of wickedness? Don't be so vague, my dear. You'd enjoy it more if you were thoroughly wicked. Let me help you not to be wicked!"

Patricia made no answer. When he repeated her name she ignored him. In a minute, as if she were trying to be conversational, she went on, still in a dreary, hopeless tone:

"Isn't it funny. I've been coming across ... all sorts of people's ideas of love ... lately—both girls and men;—and they're all of them different. They're none of them ... mine. And I must have my way of love!"

Edgar was also upon his feet, facing her.

"What is your way of love?" he asked. "It's my way, too. The others aren't love. They're phantasms." But Patricia would not speak. Only a little tearful smile, as at some baffling secret knowledge which he could never share, played upon her lips and in her eyes. The smile, as well as her silence, provoked his complaint. "There's a sort of sublime cheek about you," said Edgar, wonderingly, "that isn't likely to be equalled. I asked you to marry me. You ramble on about other people's ideas of love. The ideas of other people don't interest me."

"Exactly!" cried Patricia, thrown back into anger and shame and resistance. "That's exactly why nobody could ever possibly love you. You're only interested in your own ideas."

"They're not enough, my dear. I want your love."

"I could never love you," said Patricia, trying to speak coolly, and remaining unconvincing in her childish emphasis. "I could never love anybody so ... so bitterly inhuman!"

"Well, won't you try?" he urged, puzzled at her quarrelsomeness and unable to reconcile it with the indifference he had feared. "You like me, don't you?"

Patricia shook her head, unexpectedly.

"No!" she cried. "I don't like you. I hate you. I shall always hate you. You make me feel such a cad!"

And with that she left him, going in search of Claudia. Edgar, his heart beating, and his temper ruffled, remained standing as he had stood during the latter part of their interview. He did not see her again that night. She had left the house by the time Claudia returned to the room, and brother and sister averted their eyes from each other at their first encounter.