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.