longer worked; his mother directed the household, but no longer
laboured upon her knees to keep it clean and neat. His younger brother,
if he had not been killed in the War, would have benefited equally;
while his young sister Claudia stayed at home and amused herself and
everybody else very much by a display of housewifely virtues for which
many others girls of her period, even if they have the inclination, can
find nowadays no opportunity. The family, having spent miserable years
in a place called West Hampstead, had moved seven years before the
opening of this story to Kensington, where they occupied a small house
and spent an agreeable, if aimless, existence. The elders, who were
proud of Edgar, feared him a little; his sister, proud also, feared him
not at all. It was she, in fact, who had kept Edgar human; for without
her he might either have become lost in his business or have married
some tepid young woman who herself had cast the die.
The household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Mayne, Claudia, Edgar,
Pulcinella (a small but irrepressible Cocker Spaniel), Percy (a cat
with a character), and a cook and maids who were both respectfully
spoiled by Mrs. Mayne. The servants despised Mrs. Mayne, and idolised
her children. There was nothing which Claudia might not do without
fault; and Edgar was so unobtrusively tended that he was almost unaware
of the devotion which breathed firmly from the kitchen. He went his
way, liking very simple things and dealing with them as they arose; and
none knew the secret chagrin which lay always in his solitary heart.
iv
This chagrin was nothing less than loneliness. He did not easily make
friends. His office work had so occupied his time and energy that Edgar
had become rather shy in company. And so, while Claudia had a few
friends, he had none. Claudia's friends seemed to him to be dull little
boys and girls, for Claudia was a good deal younger than himself; and
although he was amused when one or other of them was timidly pert to
him they combined together to make him feel old. He had the reputation
of a born celibate. Work, therefore, and more work, kept him rather
staid. Edgar's fear was that he might dry up altogether before he had
ever had time to live. With a warm heart, an eager sympathy, and a
manner so reserved and shy that it gave the appearance of coldness, he
was in danger--not, as he thought, of drying up, but of making some
ridiculous plunge into emotionalism which might wreck his life.
Since the night of Monty's party, Edgar had thought much of Patricia.
It did not please him to think of her in the rather sophisticated
company of those who had gathered at Monty's. She was clearly delighted
with these people, and they were a danger to her purity. Edgar thought
more of Patricia during that week than of any other person. He liked
her. He would have liked to help her--oh, always unobtrusively, so
that she could not be embarrassed by his help;--but also not perhaps
quite as impersonally as he supposed.
It was therefore with a start of delight and surprise that Edgar, upon
arriving at Monty's house, found that Patricia was to be his neighbour
at dinner.
v
His car had been behaving erratically _en route_, which is a way cars
behave when they ought to be in perfect order; and therefore Edgar
strode into the house with grimy hands, and kept the party waiting for
several minutes while he washed. At last, hot and irritated, he joined
the others, to find only Patricia, Monty, some people called Quellan,
and Blanche Tallentyre. All were sitting or standing in a small drawing
room, and dinner was immediately announced. Upon his left Edgar found
Mrs. Quellan, a fair, large woman, originally thin and raw-boned,
who was accumulating undesired and undesirable plumpness; and who
wrote books for boys under a masculine pseudonym. Upon his right was
Patricia, from whose dress all except one tiny white thread had been
removed at exactly the moment when she should have begun her journey.
The thread caught her eye as they sat down. It also caught Edgar's eye,
which was not unused to such sights.
"I might have called for you if I had known you were coming," he said,
unfolding his napkin.
"If you had, I should have kept you waiting," responded Patricia, with
a small grimace.
"Were you busy up to the last minute, then?"
"Beyond that!" They laughed together.
Then Edgar glanced round the handsome room with its high and painted
ceiling and its curiously severe walls of luminous grey. It was not a
warm-looking room. There were no pictures; but the furniture was old
and good. The table at which they sat was circular, and the light above
caught all the brilliances of glass and silver ware, while it increased
the cold darkness of the walls.
"Do you know these people?" he next asked.
"Mrs. Tallentyre was at the party. Isn't she unhappy-looking?"
"Perhaps it's only her manner." Edgar strove to make his tone light;
for his assumptions were otherwise.
"No. It's real." They both verified the impression. To Edgar it
appeared that Mrs. Tallentyre made adroit use of cosmetics; but they
heightened the hard glitter of her eyes, and the markedly anxious
vivacity of her manner. Patricia resumed: "Her husband was at the
party. A horrid man."
Well: Edgar wondered what she was doing here at all, sitting at Monty's
left hand and talking to Quellan as if she had something to gain from
him. Mrs. Quellan, fortunately, was engaged with Monty. Jacobs, having
served the soup, was at the sideboard with the decanters under his eye.
"I wish I'd known you were coming," Edgar said, rather lamely.
"I was told you'd be here." Patricia was perhaps roguish. "I've been
feeling that I must have been rather silly.... I didn't thank you...."
"Oh, no.... I'd been thinking...." Edgar broke off.
"I met ... Mr. Rosenberg at Amy Roberts's the night after the party,
and he asked me then. Amy Roberts was at school with me."
"Is she ... some sort of artist? Forgive me...." He saw that Patricia
was laughing; but it was at a swift association of his stumbling
enquiry with the monstrosity which stood upon Amy's easel. "I'm
altogether ignorant of painting and reputations." Edgar could not
have expressed the curious happiness which pervaded him at the sight
of Patricia's laughing face. The new curve of her cheeks in laughter,
and the poise of her head, were all delicious to him. Some reflection
of his feeling must have appeared in his eyes; for she sobered almost
responsive to his admiration.
"I don't think anybody knows her work," explained Patricia. Something
like sorrow transformed her face. She was recalling Jack and his
miserable confessions. "Mr. Rosenberg was praising a picture she's now
painting when he was at the studio."
"You like it yourself?"
Patricia looked frankly back at him. There was something in Edgar which
invited the truth. She felt strongly tempted to tell him the whole
story of Jack. How strange that she should feel at once so intimately
friendly!
"I don't know," she admitted. Then, quite astonished at herself, she
went breathlessly on: "You see, I don't know anything about pictures;
and I want to seem to know. It isn't pretence ... or not altogether.
I want to understand. But Amy's so difficult, and you can't ask her
to tell you why something that's very ugly, from one point of view,
is really good from another. I don't mean that I like sentimental
pictures. I hate them. But you need educating to appreciate the sort of
things Amy does."
Unconsciously, Patricia had drawn the attention of Monty, at the other
side of the round table. He had missed the opening words of her speech;
but he had heard the conclusion.
"You need no education, Miss Quin," he cried. "She simply isn't an
artist."
Patricia flushed deeply.
"I thought you were ... were praising her the other evening," she
said, indignant and breathless, her face alight with vivacity. She was
obviously loyal, obviously in earnest, and in such company demanding to
be teased.
Monty's wicked smile made the others laugh.
"One must be polite, of course," he said.
"You think she's bad?" demanded Patricia. "I mean, you think her work
is bad?"
"Terrible." They laughed again.
"But you praised her. Why do you let her go on?"
"One lets _everybody_ go on. You can't stop a runaway car or a deluded
woman."
Patricia glanced aside at Edgar.
"You think that?" she asked him before them all.
"It would hurt her to be told the truth. She wouldn't believe it, I
suppose," he said. "If it would do any good, certainly tell her; but
only a close friend whose judgment she valued would do good."
"Nobody, my dear Mayne. Amy Roberts couldn't understand." This was from
Monty, who had his dark eyes fixed upon Patricia's every change of
expression with a concentration not to be misread.
"She's my friend, you see," urged Patricia. "I hate to think of her
being...."
"It'll do her good to find out for herself," said Blanche Tallentyre,
with a snap.
Across the table Patricia stared a little at Blanche.
"I wonder," she answered, ruthlessly. "Aren't there quite enough
unhappy women in the world, who've found out too late?"
It was strange that this was the first sign of temper she had shown.
Blanche's eyes, as filled with miserable sophistication as a monkey's,
glittered at the thrust. Her haggard cheeks showed no sign of emotion;
but her lips were tightly pressed together. They parted to make
retort, but were again sealed. Patricia hardly guessed, because she did
not care, that she had made an enemy.
vi
While Patricia ignored the outcome of her remark, Edgar was not unaware
of it. He had _felt_ the electric silence which followed the speech,
had seen Blanche's glitter, and had not been unprepared for the look of
slow and comfortable malicious enjoyment which crossed Monty's face. To
Edgar the truth was apparent. There was danger in the air. Dalrymple
was not the only possible danger. Nor Harry Greenlees. Edgar was
quietly alarmed. There was always danger; but in Patricia's case it was
acute. She had done herself no good by that instant's admission of the
power to hurt. She had roused Blanche's animosity, and had heightened
Monty's interest in herself. With what assurance he could master, Edgar
withdrew her from the general circle and demanded her personal interest.
"I have a sister rather younger than you," he said. "I should like you
to meet her."
Patricia turned to him, her darkening obliterated.
"Is she very nice? And pretty?" she begged.
"Both," asserted Edgar. "She's very spirited, and slangy, and
good-tempered. She's a great tease. And she's clever."
"And alarming!" cried Patricia, ruefully.
"Then I've been unjust to her. She's alarming, because she's
unexpected. But I think you'd like her."
"Would _she_ like _me_?" The question was not all coquettish.
Edgar smiled; and thereby caused Patricia to smile in return.
"I should like you to meet her," he said.
He was not wholly absorbed, even now, in Patricia. He could see Mrs.
Quellan, growing slightly plump, but struggling against middle-age and
natural gracelessness with all the energy of those whose youth has been
lost in work and anxiety. He could see her husband, thin-haired, pale,
and elaborately cheerful over suppressed care. He could see Blanche,
so obviously what she was at that table, aged beyond her years, her
spirit tired and malignant. And Monty, full of well-being and will and
calculation, relentless and immovable in his design. The one fresh and
unwarped spirit was Patricia. She was youth incarnate. She had vitality
denied to all the others. And she was helpless through inexperience.
She was over-confident, warm-hearted, blind.
Edgar shrugged slightly. He also was not without will.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "You must certainly meet Claudia."
vii
At the end of the evening, when they were in the car together, Patricia
said:
"I feel sorry for Blanche Tallentyre; but I hate her."
"Well," replied Edgar. "Don't you think she may hate you, as well?"
Patricia did not speak. She was puzzled. She thought for some time
before she answered him.
"I meant, I don't think Blanche Tallentyre can ever really have been
..." She paused.
"Young? Oh, I think ... I think perhaps you were more right about her
than you knew," said Edgar.
"I found myself saying that," naïvely admitted Patricia. "I didn't mean
to hurt her at all."
"No," answered Edgar. "That was the devil of it. You never _do_ mean
to hurt or to do wrong, do you?" He laughed, which showed Patricia that
he was not finding fault with her. "But I pity anybody who tries to
make you do right."
"Well, you see, I'm ... I'm Patricia Quin," said Patricia, as though
that were an all-sufficient justification of any idiosyncrasy.
"Quite so." Edgar was silent in his turn. Yet he was shot through
and through with an impulse either to kiss her or to strike her; and
he continued methodically to drive his car through the after-theatre
traffic as though no such possibilities could ever have occurred to
him. Patricia, wholly unconscious that he was anything but the quiet
and composed creature whom she saw, basked in her delusion.
"I should think you must be an awfully good friend," she impulsively
said.
"Should you?" Edgar's tone was expressionless. He did not relax his
attention to the traffic.
No more was said between them upon that subject.
CHAPTER SIX: EVENING WITH HARRY
i
Half-past seven, and the appointed restaurant. A revolving door,
brilliant lights, warmth a general air of opulence; and Patricia found
herself in a small entrance hall, at one side of which attendants
wrested their outer garments from all men. She had noticed before that
no man may enter a restaurant with his hat and coat, although a woman
may sit in her furs all the evening; but she had never understood the
meaning of this differentiation between the sexes. Before her, several
people were sitting, as if waiting for others; and in a fireplace
glowed what she at first took to be a real fire. A sandy young man was
perched upon the edge of a chair, gnawing his under-lip, and ever and
again flirting his wrist out of his sleeve as he checked the lateness
of a friend. Two highly refined women talked in loud voices about their
private affairs, extraordinarily self-conscious in face of the sandy
young man. They broke off in order to stare at Patricia in a well-bred
manner, and resumed their conversation in a slightly lower key. The
young man looked again at his wristwatch.
Patricia, for her part, was frowning. She was punctual, because she
was always punctual. And she expected any host to be punctual also.
Harry's lateness, when she had arrived so eager, chilled her. She stood
hesitating, only half-aware of those others who were in the small
room with her. She had imagined something very different--an arrival,
and Harry's greeting as eager as her own. When she had so carefully
refrained from the coquetry of lateness it was only right that he
should have done the same. She was chagrined. There came back into her
mind--by what connection she could not have said, since she was only
half-conscious of her own flying sensations--memory of her distaste for
his jokes about personal cleanliness.
And while she stood there, a little wavering, all her doubts were
dispersed. There was drawn across every unpleasant thought an oblivion
so complete as to be annihilating. Patricia had seen the half-filled
restaurant through the bevelled glass panes of another door, and had
been aware of a muffled noise of conversation and the sounds common
to all restaurants; and as she waited she saw a quick movement of
black and white. The door was burst open. The black and white, so tall
as to be unmistakable, gave place in her eyes to Harry's sparkling
countenance. He was at her side, as full of verve as he had ever been
in the football field, delightfully impetuous.
"Hul-lo!" he cried in greeting. "I say, I'm so sorry! I was just
ordering the dinner. It's only just half-past, isn't it?"
Patricia was electrically happy. The life in her responded to the
life in him. They were two vital creatures, meeting and delighted;
and as she went with him into the restaurant those diners who were
conveniently placed were all moved to attentiveness at the sight of
such health and radiance. With her spirits mounting to expectation
itself, Patricia suffered the waiters to wedge her behind a small
table which Harry had reserved in the corner of the shining golden
restaurant. She was dazzled by a thousand lights and reflections,
her heart dancing, and her eyes so dangerously tender that she
instinctively withheld them from Harry's inspection.
ii
"I say!" exclaimed Harry. "This is superb, you know!" He was looking at
her brilliant dress, upon which nobody had thought to make any comment
on the previous evening. "I've never seen anything to beat it." The
dress was quite plain; but the taste which had planned it was manifest.
Both the material from which it was made and the delicate silk with
which its adornments had been fashioned were sun-coloured. Every light
made it richer, more simple, more effective. He was full of admiration.
Patricia was rewarded. She knew now that she had thought of Harry all
the time she had been employed in the long task of preparing the dress.
She made no reply. He resumed impetuously: "I could have murdered that
girl of yours the other night. Somehow I'd reckoned on finding you at
home."
"I was at Amy's."
"Oh!" He was astonished. "I almost went on to her."
"Monty and Jack Penton were there, too. They came in after dinner."
Harry frowned. It was his turn to do so. But it was not a very serious
frown, as Patricia, glancing side-ways, could see.
"Oh, the old fat man!" he lightly commented. "I don't know Penton. I
mean, I've met him, but I can't remember him."
"Did you go and see Mr. Mayne?"
Harry shook his head.
"No. I wasn't serious. One can't push one's self." His teeth showed,
not in a smile, but as if in some habitual expression. "He's not my
sort."
"He's very kind."
Harry laughed.
"Exactly," he said. His eyes were upon her, so eager as to be
devouring. "You know, I'm most awfully glad you could come to-night.
I've got all sorts of things to tell you."
"I wish," murmured Patricia, "I wish you'd tell me why men have to
leave their overcoats at the door of a restaurant."
His voice was lowered. His eyes roved for an instant.
"It's so that they can cut a figure," he explained. "A man in his
overcoat--oh, a sorry sight. A woman--it's so different. She's got to
keep her shoulders warm. She's got to show her furs to everybody. By
the way, where are yours?"
Patricia regretfully shook her head.
"You have to imagine them," she ventured.
"They're the finest here," Harry assured her. "It's all simply a
question of decoration. And also, no doubt, of tips. You see, a woman
is entertained."
"I never understand why _that_ is," cried Patricia. "I'd far rather
always pay for myself. I do, as a rule."
"Not with me," said Harry, with a sudden firmness which she admired.
"You don't want to with me, do you?" He was confident; but he spoke
truly. She had no will to flout him.
A shyness fell upon them. They ate for a moment in silence. After all,
they did not know each other very well; and it may have occurred to
each that part of the lightness of the conversation was due to a kind
of defiance of constraint. Their moods, however, were in harmony; as
was testified by the exchanged smile which succeeded the silence.
"Are you a _good_ dancer?" demanded Patricia. Harry laughed again.
"I didn't bring my testimonials," he answered. "Did you?"
"I brought my shoes." She was quite ready for him. "If you're a bad
dancer I shall be shocked."
"You needn't worry," said Harry, calmly. "The question is, can _you_
dance?"
Patricia thought: How splendid! How splendid! Her glance was roguish
and evasive, so perfect did the understanding between them appear to
be. Aloud, she very demurely responded:
"We'd better both hope for the best, hadn't we? It's no good meeting
trouble half-way."
iii
They found themselves autobiographical in a very short time. Patricia
was made to give a sketch of Uncle Roly and others; and Harry detailed
some of the more amusing episodes of his youth. He had been born in the
country, it seemed, and had lived in the country until he was sent away
to school. Patricia rejoiced. Some of her own early memories were of
the country, and with her fancy quickened by the occasion she followed
Harry's narrative with what she felt sure he must recognise as perfect
understanding. He pictured the district in which he had lived, making
little strokes in the tablecloth with his dessert knife in order to
give her a rough notion of the scenes amid which he had played.
"That's the hut," he said. "The ditch was along here. Trees, you know
... and the road here. That hut was a real treasure. One never gets
tired of that sort of place. It suits every game, and every weather. We
slept there sometimes in the summer, in hammocks slung across. It's a
queer thing to sleep out of doors in the midst of all the night noises."
"Is it alarming?" asked Patricia. She was thinking of things
inexplicable.
Harry's eyes opened. He did not understand her.
"Oh, no," he said. "I only meant, queer to listen to the jolly old
owls, and things."
"Had you got a river near you?" She resented his misunderstanding; but
for an instant only.
"You mean, boating? No, not near. There were streams, and bits of
water; but nothing big enough for boating. We used to bathe. Jove, they
were days! Of course, I get some of the old pleasures now by tramping.
I started it before the war, and went back to it directly I got out of
uniform. There's nothing to beat the road, if one doesn't mind roughing
it. You go along and along, and haven't anything to tie you to a place
or a bed. You get meals where you can, and tumble in for a rest where
you can, and come home when you like, and go where you like. Even now
it's quite decent, so long as your passport is all right and you don't
mind taking what you can get."
"And when you were a little boy, were you naughty?"
"Yes. And were you a naughty little girl?"
"No. I was a good little girl."
"What, _never_ naughty?" His face was full of incredulity.
And so the meal progressed, and the friendship was enhanced by every
piece of observation which either of them directed at the other.
Seen close at hand, as Patricia knew already, Harry had all the
attractiveness which belongs to good health and physical vigour. All
his movements were definite, his eyes were clear and his glances
assured. His hair was crisp, his colour good, his frame large and
impressively well-knit. He had played forward for the Harlequins, in
a pack that was both heavy and quick, a team that owed its triumphs
not only to great generalship but also to the speedy adroitness of its
individual members. And in spite of his years Harry was still a man of
sure and rapid action. At all points he charmed Patricia.
Patricia charmed him no less. That which in him was quick and vivid
found its counterpart in her. If they had had nothing intellectually in
common, still their proximity would have brought happiness to both. But
in addition Patricia was nimble of wit, and intrigued Harry's interest
in that respect also. She was as quick as he was, and sometimes she was
quicker than he. Harry could see the play of expression upon her face
during the whole time that he was talking, and the play showed that
she had no mental inertia, and no single inability to comprehend the
meaning of all he said. Harry was quite used to the skill with which
a more ignorant girl would manifest understanding of which she was
incapable. He knew that in Patricia's case it was the real thing. So
speaking a face could not deceive. And perhaps he did moreover "receive
fair speechless messages" which increased his ardour and his already
dominating confidence. He was very happy. They both were very happy,
and their happiness added lustre to the beauty of both.
iv
"Where are we going after dinner?" Patricia demanded suddenly. She
had declined a liqueur, and was finishing her last cigarette. Already
the restaurant was half-empty of those diners who had proceeded to
theatres. The remainder sat on, talking. She could see the two highly
bred women of the lounge in the company of two glossy-haired men in
evening dress. Neither man, she recognised with satisfaction, could
compare with her own escort. And so the manner of her inquiry had been
complaisant as well as calm.