ii
Although cold, it was a fresh morning. The clouds had gone, and the sky was blue. Patricia—having eaten her breakfast and hurried exultingly out of doors—felt a strong temptation to run along one of the streets leading riverwards. She could imagine herself standing upon the Albert Bridge and looking down at the swiftly-moving Thames. A fine breeze would be sweeping there. She would be able to pretend that she was at sea. How stern Patricia must be with herself! She vigorously maintained her course along the King's Road, towards Sloane Square, and there made her purchases. She thought: "I'm not like these other women. I know what I want. They stand fingering stockings for half-an-hour. I suppose it's a hobby. I simply ask for what I want. And get it."
This made her seem to the assistant who served her somewhat peremptory. Patricia took no interest in shop-assistants when she bought material for a dress for herself. She thought she did; but although she became indignant—vicariously—at thought of shop-assistants' wages, she did not really acknowledge that in relation to herself they had any existence. She retired from the shop with approximately what she had entered for the purpose of buying; and the assistant watched her go with an air of some preoccupation. As another assistant near her was doing the same thing, the two gathered together in order to discuss Patricia. They appeared to rub noses, as kittens might have done; mournfully and confidingly, holding conversation in a whisper, and separated only at the entrance of another customer.
"Yes, moddam?" inquired Patricia's shop-assistant, with mechanical address.
Patricia was far down the King's Road, carrying her parcel.
"I should hate to be a shop-assistant," she impulsively thought. "It must be a rotten life, attending to people who don't know what they want, and stand fingering stockings for half-an-hour, and then buy a reel of cotton. They like me, because I know what I want."
She could not help being rather pleased with herself.