ii
When Lucy banged into the room in the morning Patricia still slept, her little pale face deep in the pillow, and her hair tumbled; and she would have continued to sleep if Lucy, in stumping across to the window, had not been reminded of her failure to fill the carafe and water-jug.
"Gawd love a duck!" exclaimed Lucy, at which Patricia awoke.
She could vaguely see a pink dress, very soiled, and a big dirty apron surrounding a stumpy body, and a little cap, and the dirty red smudge which she knew to be Lucy's face.
"Good morning," said Patricia drowsily, still hardly conscious of the day.
"I've said it once," cried Lucy, emphasising the sibilants until she appeared to hiss. "I said it as I come in. And now I've got to traipse all the way downstairs again to get you some cole water! What a life!"
"Well, Lucy," said Patricia, putting her head out of bed. "I don't think you can blame me for that. In fact I was very annoyed last night, when I was thirsty, to find there wasn't any. I might have parched to death."
"You didden brush your teeth larce night, I can see," retorted Lucy. "Got 'ome too late, I s'pose, and frightened of the beetles." She clucked her tongue in reproof. "Your young man wouldn' like to know that about you!"
"Don't be coarse, Lucy. I did forget to brush my teeth. But it's the first time for months."
"Gawd. Some people wants a nursie always after them! I got no time for it. Not myself, I 'aven't. I s'pose I got to get your water now. Don't want to scald yourself. 'E wouldn' like that, neither!"
An idea shot into Patricia's head. She had a sudden cowardice about getting up. What if Harry had written? She felt she simply could not face all the possible sequels to last night's scene. It was terrifying! As she lay there she definitely feared the day, and its outcome. All the time Lucy was away, Patricia was trembling with apprehensiveness. She would run away—she would burn a letter—she would.... Ghastly possibilities flew through her mind. Lucy had hardly re-entered, panting and noisy, before the inquiry was launched alarmingly at her.
"Lucy, is there a letter for me?" demanded Patricia, in a betrayingly self-conscious and unsteady voice.
"No!" said the smudge, rather severely. "There ain't! But there's some nice cole kipper, if you 'urry."
She disappeared, while Patricia, half-relieved and half tearful, with a sinking heart, put her head back under the clothes, feeling ill and doleful and heavy with trepidation.