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!"