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She began once more convulsively to sob; and Patricia, who was now herself white and shaken as the result of this tirade, was stricken with fear for her reason. These ghastly, tearing sobs were unbearable. They echoed in the lofty studio, rising, sometimes almost to the pitch of screams. For ten minutes they lasted, and then, gradually, with returns and relaxations of violence, Amy became quiet, and lay on her bed, drying her eyes. Long afterwards she began to talk in what was very nearly her ordinary voice.
"There, that's enough," she said. "I'm a fool. You're bad for me, Patricia. You make me lose my head. You look so kind and pretty, and as if you understood, which of course you don't in the least. No, if Jack was any good to me, I'd marry him at once just to get out of it. But a man who bores you is no good. I should leave him on the train somewhere, poor fool that he is. It's no good. We're all alone, Patricia. Each of us. You think you're not——"
"I know I am," swiftly corrected Patricia.
"Oho! So you're getting it, too. We all do, sooner or later; and you're the sort of pretty little fool who gets caught by her vanity. I've done it. You'll have a bad time before you're done. Yes, now I look at you I see you're a bit peaky. I suppose it's Harry Greenlees. Harry Greenlees, Good God!" Amy laughed with a strained satirical note. "Well, I warned you. I could have told you about all sorts of girls he's treated the same——"
Patricia's heart stopped beating for an instant.
"All sorts of girls?" she cried. "What d'you mean?"
Amy looked at her sharply, her face transformed, almost venomous. "Well, little Jean Cowley went away with him. It was all over in a month. They hardly notice each other now. She's through it. He's been the lover of half-a-dozen girls I know——"
"I don't believe you!" cried Patricia, perfectly white with anger.
Amy looked back with a superciliousness as great as her own.
"Jean Cowley told me all about it herself. I'm not a liar. Penelope Gorran ... Phyllis Mickle...."
"Amy!"
"I know what I'm talking about."
"Not whom you're talking to, though!" cried Patricia.
Amy became for the first time really intense. She rose from the bed and came across the studio, and Patricia could see her red eyes and the terrible white face all disfigured with angry grief.
"You're not his mistress, are you?" demanded Amy. "You poor fool!"
How far Patricia had travelled since their previous talk about girls and their lovers. She was not now stricken with shame at such a suggestion. She was merely indignant.
"Be quiet, Amy!" she cried. "You can't talk like that!"
Amy gave a short laugh, raising her arms in the air in a gesture of offensive marvel.
"Beautiful!" she said. "Beautiful!"
As they faced each other, both desperately angry, with opposed glances of hostility, breathing quickly in their common agitation, there came a ringing at the bell of Amy's studio. Slowly the blood rose and flooded Patricia's cheeks. She knew who was without. All her anger died. Its place was taken by fear. She was paralysed, knowing that the moment she had dreaded was upon her.