i

From that evening Patricia had no lack of companionship. She had fallen into a whole group of new friends and new Christian names. There was no end to the Dorises, the Bills, the Owens, the Hildas, and the Normans whom she met at every dance and every party. She sat on floors and talked with assurance; she danced with a score of men. During the daytime she did more dress-making than bread-work. In the evenings, carried away by the sense of new experience and new power, she added a veneer of alluring sophistication to her nature. Never had the face of life been so quickly altered.

At first it seemed to Patricia that these young men and women whom she now so constantly met belonged to a different species from herself. She had been brought up in a suburban atmosphere in which anything not perfectly respectable was done in secret. It had been a disagreeable atmosphere to her, because she was both impetuous and innocent, a combination of characteristics which always raises trouble for the owner. Regarding herself as a free spirit, she had received rebuffs from those more strict; and her candour had given rise to wrong impressions about herself in her own mind as well as in the minds of others. She had supposed that Patricia alone was in a state of rebellion against suburban laws. She had even exaggerated her own importance as a rebel. Now she found that these laws did not apply; and that in fact defiance of them was unnecessary. The young people of her fresh pleasure did not defy: they had forgotten. She became aware of a whole new code. A free spirit she still felt herself; but one in a world of free spirits. Along with the exaggerated sense of her own personality common to clever girls of our day she had also the good sense to realise the improvement in her own circumstances. Patricia rejoiced. She delighted in the feeling of wide acquaintance, of new liberty. It pleased her to meet cordial young people who were no cleverer and no more concerned with strait-laced morals than herself and whom she did not despise. She began at last to feel at home. They were young, free-and-easy, less mentally ingenious than she was, admiring, unaffected. It was as though she belonged to the same family as themselves, but was of a naturally brighter plumage. Her vanity was sensibly fortified.

And through all this new experimenting with her own strength there ran for Patricia something more precious still. The added significance which had been given to her days was due only in small part to this increased circle. The friends she made were a background; they filled in the picture; but no more. Every day was coloured and moulded for Patricia by happiness, the happiness of young half-love. It warmed her heart through the gloomy winter days; made her laugh, sparkle, sigh, with a new tenderness; and gave fresh life to all her perceptions and understandings. Occasionally she even glimpsed her own happiness, when the excitement of it was past and she sat more thoughtfully alone. And then the precariousness of it, the sense of insecurity, of withheld culmination, gave to the vision a fresh colour and zest of danger.

That one evening with Harry, which had begun so splendidly and ended in such dissonance, was but the beginning. The mixed crowd of people had resolved itself into two separate portions—the theatrical and the non-theatrical; and even the theatrical portion proved shortly to be a welcoming band. Bella Verreker was appearing in musical comedy, and she did not again encroach. Only the less aggressive girls continued to join the parties; and Patricia found that several of these, and some of the young men, were so far without regular paying engagements. They appeared in private or semi-private shows, for experience and reputation; and she had the first consciousness of forming a part of her generation. All were lively people to know slightly, and the non-theatricals, some of whom were Civil Servants and others of moderately independent means or of various artistic or semi-artistic occupations, were immense talkers and eager, but not expert, dancers. Beside them all, Harry was as distinguished in his way as was Patricia in hers. They were both welcomed, even sought.

Patricia felt herself alive at last. Letters came for her in the mornings and at night. Harry called for her. She herself gave a little party in her small rooms at the top of the house. It was fun to have seven or eight guests sitting with difficulty in the crowded space, and talking to their hearts' content. But more than that she enjoyed going to yet larger parties in more capacious studios, where the floor was sometimes cleared for impromptu dancing, where there was dressing-up, and where the games made them all laugh and talk nonsense together. She loved to swing into one of the brasseries of West End restaurants, to meet other talkative youngsters, to smoke cigarettes and sip little strange drinks. It made her feel very bold and modern and authoritative. And most of all did she enjoy the evenings which she and Harry spent together, dining at Paggolino's or some smaller Italian restaurant, and going together to a theatre or to Topping's or the Queensford or even to more popular halls where the bands were good and the floors better.

"If only," breathed Patricia. "If only one could never grow up! Always, always this beautiful...."

ii

And then sometimes she longed to grow up. As the variety began to stir her blood, and an odd unoccupied evening became a restless horror, she knew that one day she would want to be different—to do different things. She tried to tell Harry how she felt. They were sitting at dinner together one evening, when she had telephoned to him in fear of a solitary time, and they had gone to the Chat Blanc. Patricia was smoking one of her own cigarettes over coffee, and was blowing the smoke slowly from between pursed lips. She was fully conscious of the extraordinary intimacy between them, and at the same time of the constraint that underlay the intimacy and gave it an attractive excitement. Harry was so very much her friend, and yet her feeling for him was so entirely different from that which she had for the other young men of her acquaintance. He was cleverer than they—with his constant sparkle of lively expression,—and more handsome. He was himself, where the others were almost indistinguishable both in themselves in their rather immature and shallow and admiringly friendly attitude to herself. His admiration was that of a man. She responded to it.

Around Patricia rose the white walls of the restaurant, daubed with the strange sick fancies of eccentric artists; and from their table she could command the whole of the long narrow room filled with other, similar tables, all with orange and white check tablecloths and black cruet stands and pewter knives and forks and spoons. Patricia could see other guests departing at the approach of theatre times, and waiters bowing and flicking the tables clear of crumbs, and folding fresh napkins and standing the menus upright again. In a few moments they would be the only people left in the restaurant, except for one suburban couple who had strayed into Soho under the impression that theirs was a very bold experiment in night life, and who were waiting for the sensations to begin. It was just then that Patricia had this notion, which was new, and therefore irrepressibly vehement, about the desirability of growing up.

Harry sat opposite, a little leaning back from the table, dabbing a finished cigarette into the plate which they were using as an ash-tray. He was in brown tweeds, which made his beautiful fairness appear to dominate and penetrate even his clothes. The fresh brown of his face, the strength of his shoulders, the gold at his temples and in his neat moustache, the cleanness of his lips and chin, and the general magnetism of his air of disciplined vigour, were all apparent. But in addition she was most singularly moved by the fine moulding of his cheeks and that air of confident good-humour with which the popular man is so peculiarly endowed. His smile, so ready, so consciously agreeable and charming, was a part of Harry himself. Patricia, equally fair, with her piquant little head, and the blue expressive eyes and mobile lips, was his delicious counterpart. She was her age, and a child, and a witch, with much greater unconsciousness than he, because with Patricia, whose thoughts were quick and fleeting, every thought had a reflection in her face. And at this moment, from happiness, she had turned to a sudden grave discovery, far more quickly than most men could have done; and her gravity had given way before resolution, desire, uncertainty, and again conviction.

"I'd like to have a big house," she said. "A country house, with lots of servants, and a lake, and peacocks, and a ballroom, and a wood, and lawns. I'd like to manage an estate."

"Good God!" cried Harry, pretending to be startled, and sharply dropping his cigarette stump into the plate. "What for?"

"I'd like it. You see, all this running about—it's great fun, and I love it. But it won't last."

"Why not?" Harry's tone was a little flat, as though his surprise had only been exaggerated, as though he had been disturbed by a definite assumption. "I don't see why it shouldn't. After all...."

"I shall get tired of it."

Harry laughed, showing his big white teeth. Patricia wondered if he knew that when he laughed she had a sudden almost aching thrill of affection for something boyish and lovable in him. Did he know?

"You won't," he assured her, the laugh remaining and fixing in his cheeks for a moment deep lines of untroubled good humour. "Not for a century."

"I might. I might get tired of it in a month," she said. "Sometimes I'm tired of it already." Patricia hardly knew what she was saying. The words came easily; but the conviction was lagging behind somewhere in another thought. "You see, Tom Perry and Daphne and Woods—they're all right, but they've got no brains. If I want to talk to anybody—really talk, I mean,—there's nobody but you."

"Well?" His grin reappeared. "Aren't I enough?"

"You're splendid, of course."

"You're not so sure?" Harry's question was teasing: he was not taking her seriously, was being indulgent, deliberately winning: but a shock ran through Patricia even as she responded to his charm. The hesitation which he had detected—had it really been there? Quick emotion moved her. She turned away her head for an instant. For that fraction of time her doubt had become a reality. She was pitiably uncertain of herself. Surely if one were—say, even half-in-love—one never had such a doubt of the beloved? And yet Harry—he was older than herself, a man, fixed perhaps in his present state of life.... If she grew out of him! What then? In such a life as they led.... Patricia still clung to the theory of constancy, of common growth, of happiness for ever after. With all her arrogance, she did not want to lead. To be led was a necessity to her.

"Don't you see I'm not sure?" she asked. "How can you be sure? How can you ever know what you'll think in a week, or a month, or a year?"

"Of course you can't," Harry agreed jocularly. "The best way is not to think of it—not to look forward at all." His words were light, his face untroubled. Did he not understand? Was he reassuring her, or did his words truly represent the limitations of his insight?

"But I've got to!" She was urgent. Tears were in her eyes. "I was just thinking...."

"I'm not going to get tired of it," Harry said, his jaw set and his laughter gone.

"Aren't you?" asked Patricia, her heart sinking. Her doubt of an instant before seemed to be confirmed. A heavy sigh escaped her. For a moment she was silent. Then, with an abrupt rally, she shook her head. "No," she continued. "You're not going to get tired of it. Nor am I!"

iii

But as soon as she had spoken the words, she knew they were not true. She could not tell whether she would tire now or later; but she was sure that one day she would tire. Her capacity for growth already flew a warning, and she could not for ever be blind to the signal. Well, and what then? A shadow darkened her eyes. She looked across at Harry's clear and happy face, at his crisp hair, and felt the strength and energy that was in him. How resist that boyish charm, the laughter that seemed so constant? Could one ever tire of laughter? Surely it was impossible. Her heart softened. The little impetuous mouth drooped ever so little. At sight of that, Harry's smile broadened.

"You've got a quaint mind," he said. "It doesn't matter in the least."

"It does." Patricia frowned. Then as suddenly she smiled in return. "No, it doesn't. You're quite right. And yet it does, you know."

"Well, which?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I'll never know."

"As for these young cubs and cublets, let 'em rip. They'll never be any different. Where you're wrong is in worrying about it. If you think, you wobble. Therefore, don't think."

"It's easy to say." Patricia regarded herself for a moment with solemnity. She had a clear sense of herself refusing to be content with something less than the best. She wanted to live to the fullest capacity. She was quite intensely in earnest about that, about her responsibility to Patricia Quin. It was a sacred trust.

He stretched a big hand across the table and caught her wrist, pressing it. Their exchanged glance was of joy, almost, it seemed, of understanding.

"Cheer up!" Harry urged. "Let's clear out of this."

Within two minutes they were out in the black street. A stormy wind rushed along towards and past them, leaving Patricia shivering a little. Harry put out an arm and caught her suddenly to him. She was immediately free again, but she was breathless with something other than loss of breath, and her heart was beating.

"We'll go and dance somewhere," he suggested.

Patricia shrank from his tenderness at this moment. The wind, the hint of rain, her hidden conflict of perplexity, all discomposed her. She wanted to be alone, to think. And yet, on the contrary, most passionately to be with him, and not to think—never to think, never to wake.... At last:

"No," said she. "I'm not in the mood. I'd spoil it. I'll go home. Let's go by Tube."

They came out into Shaftesbury Avenue, which was half deserted now that the omnibuses and the theatres had engulfed so many of those who crowd the street; and then that deluge which had been on the tail of the wind was suddenly released, and poured down so sharply that the two of them had to run to the Piccadilly Circus station. Warmed and laughing, they stood close together in the crowded lift, and plunged down into the earth. Echoing passages, vehement advertisements of concerts and theatres, some stairs in a blaze of baffling light; and they were listening to the distant rumblings of Underground trains.

"On Saturday," resumed Harry, "we'll go to the Ireland match at Twickenham. It's always the best Rugger of the season. If you'd like to? And in the evening Puffer's got a party in his cellars. Sweaty but jolly, the cry is, I believe."

"No, I'm going to Monty Rosenberg's."

"The devil! Monty?" He pulled up quickly. His head was shaken. "No, don't go there. Puffer's a decent old sort."

"So's Monty." Patricia was suddenly defiant, as at some assumption of right. Harry grimaced at her.

"First I've heard of it," he said. "Don't go there, there's a dear!"

"I've promised. I'm going with Jacky Dean."

"Good Lord!" Harry was amazed. He would have protested further; but their train at this moment burst from the tunnel. They were crushed into it by eager fellow passengers, and sat blinking in that strained artificial light which is so much more trying to the eyes than the light of the sun. Extraordinary roaring filled their ears. With the crowd and the dazzle and the subterranean re-echoings of violent noise they were dazed and helpless. Impossible to converse. Impossible to think clearly. When they wished to communicate with one another it was only by means of raised voices at each other's ears. At last Harry could stand it no longer. At a shout, he proceeded: "Jack's ... a decent little ... owl. But he's an awful ... fool!" Patricia nodded. The train ran into a station, and there was an instant's silence. In it, Harry resumed: "Why not come with me? Don't you want to come?" No answer. He bent nearer, and Patricia could not look up. "You'd rather go to Monty's? Well, look here, come to the match, any way. I've got to go there—on business. I'm doing a special on it. Will you? That all right? Good."

The train started again. They were lost in that fearsome jungle of uproar. Patricia was struggling with herself. The noise seemed to have destroyed all her wit, all her confidence. She could not understand the sensation she had—as though she were stifling, as though the blood were filling her cheeks.

"I'd rather come to Puffer's," she managed to shout.

"Well?"

"I can't."

Harry turned away grimly, staring at an advertisement. Their wills were in conflict. Patricia's eyes closed. Her brain was full of tormenting thoughts. He was cruel. Then, no ... it was she who had been.... Uncontrollably, her hand swiftly moved, and was tucked lightly between his arm and his body. Harry's hand came as swiftly to press hers, and although the two hands drew apart again Patricia's remained within the crook of his elbow for the rest of the short journey.

iv

By the time they reached South Kensington station the rain had ceased. Big clouds were passing overhead at high speed, and the wind remained fierce. Somehow it appeared to Patricia that when one had looked upwards and seen the clouds, and behind them that lighter darkness the sky, all that stood upon the surface of the earth was dwarfed. The people, the lamps, the trees, the houses, were all shrunk to insignificance, as the pain and bewilderment of poor humans must seem to those steady eyes of pity, the stars. She could not see any stars, but the gusts of wind made for the impression of great spaces, and presently the few trees by the side of the road, and the dark houses which lay beyond, took on the air of a mysterious wood. She felt that she and Harry were wandering alone in a wood at night, beneath the stars, listening to the endless torment of the anguished leaves; and all her love of beauty made her heart soft, so that she was moved beyond tears, and wished only to rest her head and prolong the ecstatic moment.

But she could not speak to Harry. She could have taken his hand and walked onward in silence; but that was impossible, because this vision that she had was unsubstantial, and Harry, whose laughter was so delightful, would not understand anything that was so intangible, so unrelated to his normal life. She was conscious in him of a thick stream of emotion, of the power of serious preoccupation with sensual things, amounting to obsession; and sometimes she had that same thickness of emotion when she was with him or longing for him, but never with obsession;—always with a shyness, a flying away, as of some will o' the wisp. But she more often had only a light playing of fancy, which made love a beautiful game; and now she had only a childish desire for happiness and mystical beauty. This her instinct told her was not shared. If Harry laughed, it was because there were whole realms of which he knew nothing. She had a swift certainty; there was no poetry in his nature. He was all the time absorbed in the tangible. Oh! What treason! She would not allow such thoughts. They were wicked, unjust, treacherous.... How the wind thrust and blustered among the trees! She could feel it upon her face and in her hair, and in her eyes. Harry said:

"Your friend Amy Roberts has been making a fool of herself."

Patricia, withdrawn from her wonderings by so incongruous a speech, could hardly understand him for a moment. Amy ... Amy.... It was an instant before she could bring herself to recognition.

"Oh." At last, vaguely, Patricia groped for his meaning. "What's she been doing?"

"It seems she ran into Felix Brow somewhere, and taxed him with saying she couldn't paint. Of course, poor Felix muffed the thing. Or perhaps, after all, he didn't. He said he didn't know she painted at all. Yes, I expect that wasn't so much of a muff as I thought it was at first. Damned insulting," Harry laughed appreciatively, thinking the speech over to himself before he continued: "He begged her not to betray him. That made Amy angry. Somebody had told her he'd said she painted with a besom. She'd prefer even that to being ignored. After all, she's no good as an artist. She's too stupid. And she makes these ridiculous scenes. There's some itch in her that makes her precipitate a row."

"I think she's conceited."

"Of course she is. Did you ever know a fool who wasn't? But she's worse, because she quarrels with people who mean kindly by her."

"I know." Rather despairingly, Patricia shook her head. "Did Felix really say that?"

"My dear! Poor old Felix wouldn't say anything so dull. After all, he is a wit. He'd say something worth saying, and worth repeating, or he wouldn't open his mouth."

"These witty things, though. Are they really said?"

Patricia's cynicism was too much for Harry. He laughed, looking down at her with an almost proprietary air of delight.

"I've heard a few of them. They're not always spontaneous, of course. But it's so absurd of Amy to quarrel with a man like Felix. It can only do her harm. He will say something about her now. I mean, he's a man to stand in with, not quarrel with."

Patricia was struck by this point.

"Do you really think that?" she asked. "That one ought to 'stand in' with people."

"Of course!" Harry's tone was severe.

"You think it's right? You do it yourself?" Patricia's tone was sad. She could not see his face; but then neither could he see hers. For Patricia the question was of vital importance. Yet Harry was not conscious of the meaning of her question.

"You've got to do everything in this world," he assured her confidently.

"How base!" Patricia's protest was so low that it escaped Harry. "But surely, Harry, if you're any good...."

"All the more reason. Of course, it doesn't matter in Amy's case...."

"I must go and see her."

Patricia spoke mechanically. She was not thinking of Amy. She was thinking of Harry, and of herself.

"She'll probably tell you about Felix—with embellishments of her own. A few of the withering replies she's thought of since. I will say that for Amy: she improves her speeches a lot in revision." He laughed with some dryness.

"Harry!" protested Patricia. "I believe you're spiteful!"

"As a nun!" he agreed. "Didn't you know?"

Again Patricia shrank into herself. They were nearing her home now, and the road was very dark, and Harry's nearness gave her a sense of happiness and security. And yet she was neither happy nor secure. It seemed as though the stormy evening had reawakened all her sensitiveness. No, she was not happy. Intermingled with her own mood was the strange jumble of problems which had been raised by their talk and the memories it evoked. Now she wanted to leave him, now to stay—and at each turn she was exasperated anew at her own waywardness. The shallowness of Harry's conviction that one ought to cultivate those who might be useful hurt her (as similar remarks had done several times before). She remembered several of her distastes for things he had said. She remembered, too, their talk over dinner on the subject of growing up; and it made her shiver. And yet she continued to walk by Harry's side, feeling in his proximity the same joy, the same warm affection as she had done all the evening. It surprised her to know that one's love for a person could fluctuate so, and so persist; that it could come and go almost as if with breathing. She was undecided. Did she perhaps not love him at all? It was as though some reality greater than inclination, or else some very strong illusion, was always interrupting her love and making it ineffective. He was the only man she had ever wanted to kiss her, the only man to whom she could physically have yielded herself; and yet....

She fell into a series of fresh ponderings, about Amy and Jack Penton, about Harry and Amy, about Harry and Rhoda, Harry and Bella, about Harry's spitefulness; and with each variation of the theme it became less and less possible to disclose the nature of her thoughts to Harry. How could one love a person, and yet sometimes dislike what they said, and resent what they did, and hate what they thought? And yet, as her heart told her, he was the man she loved, so beautiful, so strong, so much her true love. What were thoughts and speeches compared with that instinctive certainty? She was torn. It was a puzzle to Patricia that this hesitation should arise. She was unhappy under her happiness.

Suddenly she became aware that they were outside her home, and that the house was dark, and that Harry had spoken to her without receiving a reply.

"Hey!" he cried sharply, to attract her attention.

Patricia, startled, looked up at him as if she were dreaming. The little hushing wind in the slim and bare branches of small trees was accompanied by the pattering drops of a fresh shower. Cold splashes touched her cheeks. She could see Harry standing like a giant above her, could feel the radiance of his strength and beauty and love for her. She was deeply moved. Harry, amused and laughing at her abstracted silence, put his arm round her. As if naturally, but in reality because she was only half-attentive, Patricia stopped, standing there within his arm. She was quite happy, quite at ease, but dreaming.

"What is it?" she asked, in a very hushed way, hardly to be heard.

"Only that you're a darling!" Harry stooped and kissed her, holding her tightly but gently within his arm, and with his free hand raising her hand to his lips. She felt his rough cheek against her own, his warm lips, and against her hair the brim of his hat. How strange that for a moment, held so firmly, Patricia felt nothing at all except that it was delicious to be there, delicious to be so encircled, so loved. Harry kissed her a second time, but not her averted mouth. She felt his lips encroaching, his hold more urgent. Patricia's heart beat faster. So she might yield herself to love. He would kiss her lips, and she would kiss him, and then for ever—for ever.... She was half-yielding. She was yielding. Faster and faster ran her heart, and the wind and rain and darkness were blotted out in this sweet stupor. And then some electrical revolt shocked her into resistance.

"No!" she said, very quietly, and sought to disengage herself.

"Kiss me!" demanded Harry. "My dearest!"

"No!" said Patricia, again. But she was not really unwilling or afraid. She was happy and at ease and full of almost luxurious reassurance. And at the same time she was inexorable. When Harry would have kept her and again would have kissed her he was unable to do so. Her body seemed to be steel, her will greater than his impetuousness. In the struggle between domination and the instinct for liberty this new strength of Patricia's was in no way to be gainsaid. She continued, despite his effort, unquestionably to belong to herself. The impulse to submit was vanquished by something yet more insistent.

"Patricia!" commanded Harry. He was warm, was masterful. Such a tone had never hitherto failed him, and was now both ardent and sincere. Patricia was quite aware of the physical agitation which he thus expressed. He was bent upon victory, forcing the issue. And with each fleeting second his will strengthened her own. Harry was urgent. Patricia's nerve was steadied. He followed her, determined, very nearly irresistible.

"No. I'm not sure that I want you to." Her tone was cold and without feeling; but her eyes were shining and her heart was full.

"My dear, you can't...."

She held his hand, and pressed it, all the time evading his renewed embrace. The wind came sweeping along the street, and around them was blackness and silence. Moved and troubled, but as one in a dream, Patricia freed herself, made no answer to his entreaty, and left him listening to the sound of a closing door, and feeling the smart tingle of raindrops upon his face and the backs of his bare hands.