i

While Edgar speculated, Patricia suffered. Her vanity had been wounded by Harry's silence: the meeting, which showed her that he was solacing himself with Rhoda, wounded her vanity yet more. It was a mortal blow to her sense of power. Parting might have been sweet pain. This was otherwise. It was a shuddering anguish. Soberly Patricia tried to face the truth: her mind could not grasp it. She could not suppose that the romance—so sweet, so almost childish—was concluded. Although her words, and even her thoughts, were frequently those of a woman, her heart was still the easily wounded heart of a child. She had been living in a dream; and nobody would tarry until her due awakening. She found herself in a discouraging world where the grown-up is still all-powerful. Harry was a man, fixed in rigid manhood, without the gift of indefinite spiritual expansion; and she had hoped that he was still a boy, still able to play, still able to postpone his maturity until some vaguely contemplated future. Her dream was shown to have been a folly.

It was to the sense of disaster that Patricia came. Not yet to desperation.

ii

That morning it occurred to her to look at her bank-book. Two manuscripts had been returned through the post; and as she ate her breakfast Patricia suddenly recollected that she had not had anything accepted for some weeks. A tremor went through her. Her eyes flinched. Supposing.... With some anxiety she counted the small amount of money in her purse. And then, as she continued to sit in that constricted room with the low ceiling and the sun-stained wall-paper, the room seemed to grow darker. The oilcloth and rug grew more tawdry. The whole of her surroundings were seen as deplorable. Patricia had thought little of money lately, for she had given all her attention to the delightful play that was in progress; and she had worked without earnest endeavour. It had not appeared necessary, and the fancies had come with ease. So often her eyes had wandered, and her memories and anticipations had become exciting; and when that happened the pen strayed on only half-heeded, or remained quite still upon the table. And now, with this awakening, what she had written seemed to Patricia silly and babyish and without value, with all the pleasant sportiveness by which it had been inspired wholly evaporated. And she found that she had other things to face besides the loss of Harry.

For a few minutes she pretended that there was nothing to fear, that there must lie pounds and weeks between the moment and the end of comfort. Her confidence was staunch. Nothing to fear ... nothing to fear.... She was Patricia Quin. Just as she felt that she would never die, so Patricia felt that she would never want. It was true, perhaps. And yet when her thoughts tried to create money out of nothing it did not seem clear how she was to live ... presently ... soon ... very soon....

Without preparation, Patricia's courage suddenly deserted her. She lost her nerve. She no longer had her dream of Harry: she was awake: she was stifling. And disaster lay ahead. She wasn't any good.... She was afraid.

"I'm afraid," she whispered to herself, with bowed head. "I'm a coward!" It was for Patricia a terrible confession. Energy, confidence, egotism as a rule sustained her in every shock. Now these things were deserting her in face of a spectre. In vain did she rally. It was true: she was afraid.

iii

With the expression of a baby that is afraid and is trying not to confess it; with eyes that seemed to grow larger each minute and a mouth that was pursed in fear that masqueraded as courage, Patricia stood alone in that ugly little room with the highly coloured furnishings and the gilded mirror. She knew she had her friends, who would welcome her rich or poor, but they would welcome a happy Patricia, and not one who was cowed by disaster. Such a Patricia as this would be unfamiliar. She could never bear to go among them starving or wretched. Where she had queened it, she could never play Cinderella. But when her imagination darted ever so little forward—to the day when the money which had seemed such wealth was exhausted,—Patricia heard pity, and shrank from it. Hers was the panic cry: "All is lost!" She had been bold; her way had seemed so clear, so conquering. In that minute of discovery it was not surprising that confidence vanished. She was not one used to hardship, to the canvassing of expedients. All her life had been spent thoughtlessly so far as provision for anything beyond the moment was involved. She had no preparation at all for this emergency. She had awakened to nightmare.

With nerves shaken, and despair almost at her elbow, ready to plunge into her heart at a motion, Patricia tried to think. If her money went, what prospects were there? Harry's help—no! She could never appeal to Harry. That was a new thought, and one which confirmed her decision. In no circumstances whatever could she ever have gone to Harry as one humiliated. Nor could she have married him except for love, as an equal—as a superior, the adored, the shining wonderful of her own dreams. Marriage occurred to her—marriage as a way out of want—as it has occurred many times to women;—and it was only without true imagination that she saw it. It was a suggestion made by her inexperience—the sort of careless, unrealised notion that trips off the mind's surface. She knew that at any time she could have married Jacky; and the notion almost, even in the midst of her distress, made her laugh. It was absurd. Jacky! Jacky as a husband, a perpetual companion! There was nobody whom she could marry. A situation? Who would employ her? Now, when men and women were clamouring for work! And how, after so much liberty, endure the constraints and disciplines of office life! Impossible.

Dry-eyed and wretched, Patricia received her shock. She was stunned. A day earlier—in full panoply, deliciously happy, self-enchanted, inspired with the greatest ambitions, now she was amazed to find how insubstantial were the foundations of her confidence. In an instant, from independence, she had fallen to a paralysing discovery. Patricia was terrified. The knowledge that she was only a frightened, inexperienced little girl was borne in upon her.

iv

If she could have been caught in that mood by somebody capable of understanding her, who would have taken all her native silliness at its true value as the ebullience of youth, Patricia might have been turned at this moment into a channel leading straight to growth and happiness. But there was nobody at hand. There so rarely is anybody at hand. She had friends, but no friend. She was entirely without a friend to whom she could turn for renewal of that self-justification which is essential to happiness. She had been without a guide all her life, and all the acquaintances of the last few weeks were self-engrossed and pleasure-loving. She had been so wonderful, and now she saw that the power upon which she had counted did not exist. She was alone, and that was the consciousness which for Patricia lay uppermost. She was alone. Although she tried very hard to bluster, it was forced home to her that nobody cared very much what she did with her life. Harry had wanted her for himself, to make love to, to play with; never for the sake of seeing that she made the best of herself. He had not been interested in her. He had not imagined her. He did not love Patricia: he was merely "in love" with her, which meant that she provided, in her response, flattery to his own self-love.

Not a real friend: they did not grow in this heartless realm. There was only one house in London which she had felt as a home; and Claudia she hardly knew, while she was sure that Edgar Mayne, although he was kind, was inhuman. He could never understand that she was Patricia Quin, the marvellous Patricia; and that so she must remain in her own eyes for weeks and months and years to come—she believed, for ever. When she thought of him it was of one whose friendship she might value if only he would do what he could never do—acknowledge her will as a thing quite as splendid as his own. No friend: she was alone. A sob shook Patricia. The first hint of desperation showed in her. She gave a sob. What did it matter what she did? Nobody cared. Again that surge of arrogance swept—now a little less strongly—over her. She could rely upon only herself; and she was a little girl. Edgar was grown-up. Harry was grown-up. Amy was grown-up. They were all finished: only Patricia had the power of infinite growth. They could none of them understand her. She was too big to be understood—too big, and too childishly helpless. Patricia angrily wiped away two tears which had stolen out on to her cheeks. The contrast between her egotism and her situation was insufferable. She felt reckless, without hope. Who cared?

v

She was dining that night with Monty; and they were going on to dance at a club. She supposed it would be Topping's, but she was not sure. And as she wiped away her tears Patricia felt glad to be going out to dance. She thought that for one evening at least she would be able to forget that she had lost Harry and that she was on the verge of poverty. Still with that expression of fear and misery upon her face, she began to wonder about the dress she would wear, and about the evening, and about Monty; and as she did this her heart was a little eased at the distraction of her thoughts, and a more cheerful glance gave freshness to her appearance. She might still be fearful; but at any rate she was—ever so slightly—relieved. Complete disaster was not yet.

The day went on, very slowly, giving Patricia time for many changes of emotion between her fear and her arrogance, for tears and blustering or consoling speeches and recoveries; and by the evening she had become calmer. But the assertion of self-control had been purchased. She was no longer normal. The knocking of a postman in the street below made her heart flutter, and her ears strain. Any violent noise was enough to set her nerves jangling. With her mind lost, she could not do anything with concentration, but committed mistakes in spelling, wrote words that made nonsense, spilt water from the vase she had just re-filled, and almost broke the vase itself by striking it against the table in inattentive blindness. And at last the day grew dark, and then it seemed as though the lighted gas tried her eyes, making them smart, and as though the atmosphere were unaccountably heavy. Out-of-doors it was raw, with a mist rising. Within, the heat was dry and exhausting. And the hours would not pass quickly enough. They dallied slowly round the clock, and she watched the seconds hand with impatience from quarter to quarter. The room grew smaller and smaller, closing in upon her until she sprang to her feet as if to force the walls apart, so that she could breathe.

vi

The meeting with Monty was for seven o'clock, and the little restaurant where they were to dine was already half-full of people when Patricia arrived. She went straight in, and saw Monty waiting in the hall of the restaurant, his overcoat already discarded, and a cigarette between his lips. For the first time that day Patricia's heart really lightened. Monty was in evening dress (for so it had been arranged), and he always looked his most handsome when dressed. The white shirt enhanced the olive darkness of his skin, and the beautifully cut coat made him look slimmer than he was. And there was a quality in Monty's caressing manner which pleased and soothed Patricia. It was full of admiration. Monty had very dark and tired eyes, which seemed never to yield their secrets. There was power in his carriage. Everything about Monty, from his bearing to his finger tips, suggested luxury and invulnerability. He seemed always just to have left the hands of his hairdresser and the manicurist.

And on this evening he was more than ever regal and courteous. His quick glance was full of sympathy and reassurance, as though he were saying: "You are unhappy, but you look, as usual, incomparably lovely. You deserve, and you shall have, all the consolation, all the happiness that I can give you; and it will make me very proud if you will let me entertain you with all the resources of expensiveness and unobtrusive delicacy." Spoken, the words would have been odious; conveyed, they were as balm.

"Come straight in," murmured Monty, his hand upon her wrist. Patricia could still feel that he bore about him the aroma of the Egyptian cigarette which he had thrown away, and it seemed appropriate to him. He had for her the attractiveness of something exotic. The proximity of that dark face and dark head was agreeable; where all was softness and gentle modulation, she, too, could not fail to yield. "How punctual you always are! I've got a table there—in the far corner. It will be quieter. And I ventured—you will excuse me?—to order the dinner."

With a checked sigh, Patricia allowed Monty to help her with her coat, so that her arms might be free; and as he seated himself opposite she smiled. She did not know that it was a pathetic smile: she would have blushed had she known it. But Monty's glance seemed to be everywhere, although it was so seldom anything but gentle and melancholy. He spoke to the waiter, who disappeared and returned too quickly to allow of any talk in the interval. The waiter bore two small glasses.

"This is a very exceptional cocktail," said Monty. "It will do you good."

Patricia held out her hand for the glass he extended. For the first time in her life she was eager for stimulant. She drank the cool bitter drink, which sent a slow motion of revived life through her, and filled her eyes and made the feeling of dispirited tiredness recede. Monty was watching her.

"Very good," Patricia assured him. She saw the black head inclined, the slow smile which crossed Monty's face; and upon the table his plump and beautifully shapely hand as he received his own glass. As he did this, a waiter brought a shining bucket, containing ice, held a bottle for verification, and drew with a muffled pop the wine-cork. Patricia started: Monty was giving her champagne. How glad she was! It was as if he had known that she was miserable, and had planned to disperse the shadow. It was magic.

"You like the wine dry?" said Monty. "This is Ruinart."

Patricia nodded, shyly smiling. How kind he was! How kind and consoling and suave and perfectly controlled. As if he had known! Her heart warmed. Already the wretchedness of the day was slipping out of her memory. Her spirits were rising with each instant. She was growing happy.

vii

"You're tired," suggested Monty. "Don't talk. Keep very still, and your headache will go. Let me do the talking. I'm not so used to that as some of our friends are; and it will please me and rest you. Will you have some of this—and this?" His voice was so low, and its quality had so much the soft smoothness of velvet, that every word brought peace. "It ought to be possible for us all to leave England now and follow the sun. One ought now to be starting for the East, where the sun is, and spending the days in winter quarters. We ought to be going soon to Tunisia or beyond, further than the winter tourists go; and then we could come back and explore the ruins of Carthage; and you should learn all about the ancient civilisations, and forget that this sharp and strident Europe exists. It's so very lovely to travel back gradually to the West, and to see Sicily, where the most beautiful things in the world are; or it must be enchanting to go to India, to those places where Europeans rarely go, and learn something about the Hindu philosophy by going back for a dozen or so centuries and forgetting that the world as we know it has any existence. I've never been to India; but one day I shall go, because the wish to see it is growing stronger and stronger, and I'm afraid of dying or growing old before I've savoured all the beauties of the unfamiliar."

Monty spoke very slowly, and as if to cast a spell upon her, so that she might forget her tiredness and her headache. Patricia nodded. She thought how beautiful it would be to escape from all her present distress, and to wander over the face of the earth, where there was always sunshine and happiness.

"I should like," continued Monty, "to travel by car all over the world, and go through the roads, staying where the fancy suggested, and going on when I was tired. It would be very good to go through France, and Northern Italy, and on to the East. One's seen the familiar beauties. Now is the time to try and see what remains."

"I haven't seen even the familiar beauties," said Patricia, staring straight in front of her. In imagination she could see a long white road winding towards distant mountains. "I've never been out of England. Why, I still think that to go to France and Italy and Spain would be the most glorious thing in the world. Perhaps I shall go, one day."

"Nothing could be easier, I'm sure," sympathised Monty. "Why not go?"

"Because I haven't any money," retorted Patricia. "You can't go, if you haven't any money."

"You should get somebody to take you," ventured Monty. "It could easily be arranged."

Patricia remained serious: Harry, she knew, tramped through Europe. It would have been easy to go with him. He would make everything easy. A film was across her eyes. Meditatively, forgetting Monty, she sipped her champagne, and felt its incomparable pricking upon her tongue, delicious and golden.

"Yes, it could easily be arranged," said Patricia, drowsily. Then a little dryness touched her, and she looked straight at Monty, smiling. "But it won't," she added.

Monty's glance held her eyes for an instant. But Patricia's eyes were blue and clear, as baffling to Monty in their purity as his own were unreadable to Patricia by reason of their impenetrable softness. Something in those eyes smouldered.

"What a pity," said Monty.

viii

Two hours later they were at Topping's, and Patricia was dancing. The champagne had cleared her head, but she had had more to drink than usual, and her lightness was unwelcome. As she left the room where she changed her shoes and handed her coat to an attendant she was moved once more to thought of Harry by memory of her first visit to this place. Her lips seemed to be swollen and to ache, and she had been made short-sighted, and her lids were hot and unrefreshing to tired eyes. But she was less unhappy, more pliant, more forgetful of the possible disasters of the future. When Monty joined her she took his arm naturally, but also because she felt glad of the safety which his protection gave her. She could not bear to be here alone, to hear the band in the distance, and to think of Harry. It was as though, in touching Monty, she had said: "Take me anywhere—anywhere—so that I shan't think of to-morrow. Because I'm frightened of to-morrow!"

They pressed into the room, through little bunches of people who stood near the door; and Patricia heard the noise incomparably loud in her ears, and she was dancing with Monty as if there were to be no to-morrow. The champagne had robbed her of the power to feel: she was numbed by it; but it had given her brain clearness and vivacity. When suddenly she caught sight, among the dancers who were sitting at a neighbouring table, of Harry and Rhoda, the shudder which ran through her body was unconcealed. Tears filled her eyes. Monty could not have failed to observe her emotion; but his acknowledgment of it was a warmer pressure of reassurance.

"Don't let's ... go ... over there," whispered Patricia. "I don't want to go. I don't ... like them. I don't want to ... talk to Harry and Rhoda. Let's ... keep on dancing. I want to."

If only Monty would keep her there, with one arm about her, safe from her unhappiness.... If only he would protect her now....

ix

Patricia was not to escape Harry; for she and Monty had presently to rest. They sat at one of the tables, and Monty ordered some more to drink, and gently urged Patricia to join him. As she was hesitating, refusing, yielding, a voice came from behind them which sent a tremor through her. Harry and Rhoda stood there, laughing like children who had stolen unawares upon sleeping elders.

"Hullo!" cried Harry. "Hullo, Patricia!"

Rhoda drew up a chair to Patricia's side, and began vivaciously to talk. Patricia had a glimpse of the dead white cheeks and red lips and full dark eyes, and struggled to carry on a conversation with Rhoda while she was giving all her attention to what was passing behind her, between the two men.

"Saw you when you first came in!" said Rhoda. "What a pretty dress that is. This blue ... there aren't many complexions that would stand it. Yours does, though. I'm sticking to black just now. Makes me look svelte. I'm getting fat. You've been dining with Monty, I suppose. Lucky girl. I had to dig Harry out. He's working like a nigger. Going abroad...."

"I ... had ... to ... dig ... Harry ... out!... He's ... going ... abroad!" That was all Patricia heard. "He's going abroad ... going to the East, and the sun, perhaps ... tramping in the sun, making everything ... easy."

"I wish ... I were going ... abroad," stammered Patricia.

"Wouldn't it be jolly. I say, let's all go! If you could get somebody.... You could join us somewhere.... I mean...." Rhoda checked herself. Patricia shrank back.

"No, no!" she whispered. But she had heard the words which Rhoda had spoken so thoughtlessly. And behind her was Harry's voice, quite quietly saying:

"Let's change partners for a dance, Monty. I...."

Her hand shot out uncontrollably. A "no" started to her lips. She heard Monty say with equal quietness, in his thick sweet voice:

"By no means, Harry. I wouldn't deprive you of your partner for the world. How entirely charming she looks, with that ivory skin...."

"Patricia," said Harry, at her side, his lips to her ear. "Dance this once with me. Dear, I want you to. This once."

She looked up at him with something of the old insolent laughter in her eyes.

"What nonsense!" she said, rather breathlessly. "I'm with Monty."

She was quite cold to Harry now; but she would have died rather than dance with him.

x

When once more she was dancing, Patricia felt that the encounter, the blow, the opportunity, had caused her spirits to mount. And her gratitude to Monty was vehement. She yielded herself completely to the sensuous enjoyment of the dance, to Monty's immaculate skill, to the secret enchantment that bound her. She could feel Monty's soft, wine-laden breath upon her cheek, and the occasional contact of his body with her own; and she did not in any smallest degree shrink from him. But the emotion which she experienced was tinged with recklessness. She was being sustained by fierce resistance to the shadow of desperation, which now, as the evening neared its end, grew ever nearer.

"I'm sorry. I ought to have been able to avoid that encounter. I didn't see Harry until they were there," Patricia heard Monty saying in her ear. She laughed back.

"It didn't matter in the least," she said. "It was fun. I enjoyed it."

And having heard herself laugh, she laughed again, each moment more elated by the wine she had drunk and the blatant noise with which the room was filled to echoing and the excitement which accompanied the noise and gave it significance. She could see the smouldering light leap again into Monty's eyes, and she was thrilled anew with revived consciousness of power. It intoxicated her. That sweeping sense of invincibility came back and settled upon Patricia like a golden cloud which had strayed. She was extraordinarily lovely. The glitter of her fair hair in the bright light, and the pure beauty of her clear eyes, and the life in all her features, were enhanced and made wonderful. Monty's attraction to her was so manifest that she could not but respond to it. The little darting spice of mischief was in her expression; but he could see that her nostrils were pinched above the parted lips, as though she were trying to restrain the betrayal of her inclination towards him. Never had Patricia shaken herself so free from care; never had she been so aware of the secret jubilation which she felt at being admired. She was excitedly happy, but with a new feeling that was not zest, that was, instead, a knowledge of peril—even a deliberate and wanton encouragement of it.

Patricia chose to go home by omnibus. She knew that if they went otherwise Monty must inevitably make love to her; and although she was warmed and excited, and so, amorous, she was restrained from abandon by some timidity, rather than by distaste or a saving caution. Monty's desire for her was palpable: Patricia could not be unaware of it. The knowledge was in her blood, and it fired her; but she was not experienced or callous or bold enough to yield to her own importunities. Reckless though she felt, she must at all costs gain time. She was not ready—she was maliciously tantalising—she was inspirited and moved and made tremulous with fierce and unusual excitement. And so, to gain time, Patricia chose to travel in the open. Some colour to her preference was given by the fact that the evening was brilliantly fine, and Monty remained inscrutably unruffled to the end. He was never more characteristic than in his watchful impassivity. But as they parted he quickly and deliberately put his arm round her, as if it might have been for one further dance. Patricia did not protest. She breathed quickly, her lips closely compressed. Even when he stooped and took her hand, and then lingeringly kissed it, she remained, with a sort of excited triumph, and her head back, unflinching. She pressed his hand gently in releasing her own, and stood watching from the open door Monty's retreating figure. He looked back, espied her, hesitated, made as if to return; and was only discouraged by her swift withdrawal. Patricia's eyes were fixed, and she entered the house unseeing, creeping up the stairs, with tightly closed mouth. She was jubilant, cool once more, exulting; and there was for the first time cruelty and baseness in her triumph. Only when she was in her own room, and when she had set the candle down, did she feel the blood flooding her cheek and her neck and even her breast. It receded, and came again, painfully, until her whole body burned. Patricia was ashamed.