ix
Patricia felt her heart jump and then turn cold. She stared at him.
"Oh," she stammered. "Oh ... then ... then, that's all right, isn't it? I thought you wanted me to. I...." She gave a small nervous laugh. "What do you mean, then?"
"Look here," said Harry. "I'm in love with you, and you're in love with me."
"No," said Patricia. "I'm clear about that now."
"You're not. You're in love with me." Harry was overbearing in his confidence. His face had not lost its beaming affection and good nature, but the power to charm her was vanished. "And so you think of marriage. Well, there's no question of that, because I know something about myself and about you. It wouldn't last. How could it? Love's a rapture."
"We don't mean the same thing," replied Patricia, steadily, meeting his eyes frankly, and with defiance. The coldness which had possessed her on the previous evening was reinforced by a pride that was insane in its egotism.
"When people say 'Love and Marriage' they're not thinking of us. Marriage belongs to the days of women's economic dependence," he asserted.
"It belongs to the idea of constancy."
"When a woman was economically dependent," pursued Harry, ignoring the interruption, "she said 'what will you give for my love? Will you support me for life?' That's altered now. She gives love for love."
"And when she's broken?" Patricia's anger began to manifest itself. "Do you think other men think as you do? I mean, when they're offered something soiled?"
"Soiled?" Harry's astonishment was marked. "That doesn't arise."
Patricia controlled herself.
"To me it does," she said, gravely. "Not to you."
"Good Lord! I'd no idea you were such a little ... puritan!" cried Harry. Into his air of unconquerable charm came the faintest sneer; but it was not strong enough to wound. He was genuinely perturbed and unable to fathom her objection to something which for himself was a standard of conduct.
"Yes, you were mistaken, weren't you?" said Patricia. "You didn't know I was a ... prig!"
"No, no!" He was handsome in his protest. "It's a question of truth—of sense. Patricia, it's a question of purity. The delight of love doesn't last. What is the good of pretending that it does? My dear, I love you. I'm not trying to seduce you. Never!"
"My dear Harry," exclaimed Patricia, "you're talking to the wrong person. You think that love is just self-indulgence. Perhaps you're right. You may be right. I can't tell. But you see I don't think like that. I admit that I...." She could not proceed. "I'm not even thinking of sacrifices. I'm thinking of happiness."
"You're refusing it, my dear," said Harry.
"Then it's not worth having."
He turned aside with brusqueness. He even shrugged. It was in his case not viciousness, not deliberate sophistry. He had merely mistaken Patricia's readiness to accept his standards. To Harry these were the common sense of love. He was not at all unclean. It was astonishment at a question that made him thus obtuse. The waiter came to their table and began to spread the cups and plates with absorbed deftness. Patricia, her mind elsewhere, watched him with constraint. When once the waiter had gone, she said breathlessly to Harry:
"Look here, Harry. I can't eat any of this. It would make me sick. I'm going. I'm sorry to...." She rose to her feet, trembling. Harry rose too, masterfully.
"Shut up, Patricia. Sit down, and don't.... Look here, we'll talk about it. I'll make you see my point of view. I'm not trying to...."
"I'm going. You eat it. I'm ... I don't want...."
Patricia stood there, her eyes stern but loving; reproachful and contemptuous. There was still a moment; and it passed. She turned swiftly, and left Harry standing by the table. He called once; but his fear of attracting attention in a public place held him there. It was the one thing which would have restrained him. Sick at heart, but with her head erect, Patricia walked quickly out of the restaurant and into the street. She felt that her heart was breaking.