viii
Outside, in the street, Harry was waiting.
"What a sight that woman is! Silly little fool!" he explained. "She's a cat, too. Did you notice that?"
"Look here, Harry," said Patricia, abruptly. "I don't want to listen to abuse of Amy. I'm sorry for her."
"Oh, God, so am I!" cried Harry, lightly.
"No, I'm really sorry. You don't understand." With sudden indignation, she concluded: "You couldn't ever understand. You don't know enough."
"Well?" He was quite cool. "I see you're in a rage about something."
"I'm not in a rage about anything; but I do resent your coming to the studio as if I belonged to you. You've got no right to do that. I came out because I didn't want a row before Amy."
"Oh! A row!" Harry turned a laughing, coaxing face to her, very sure of himself. His hand was at her arm; but Patricia was completely mistress of herself.
"Yes, a row," she cried, her eyes sparkling afresh. "Let's go and have tea somewhere."
Harry's face was also alight. If Patricia had temper, so, it appeared, had he. They were matched.
"That was exactly my idea," he said impudently. "Let's!"
They walked through into Oxford Street and joined the crowd there. Such teashops as the one at which Patricia had lunched were unsuitable. They were at this hour too crowded for conversation. As a result the journey was for a time without result; but at last they came to a big restaurant at which few visitors to the West End imagined that such a thing as tea would be served. Here it was that, surrounded by innumerable empty tables, and at a distance from half-a-dozen pensive waiters, amid gilded mouldings and huge mirrors and imposing candelabra, Harry and Patricia seated themselves for their talk.
"Now!" cried Harry. "Tea, crumpets, cakes. No crumpets? Toast." He instructed the waiter with the assurance of one who has entertained since the days of undergraduate life. Having seen the waiter depart upon his errand, he then cleared a vase of flowers from the table, and moved a dish which stood in his way. Then, with wrists upon the table, he stared at Patricia. "Darling!" he said. "I seem to feel most at home with you when you're in a rage. There's a little nick ... see...."
"Never mind the little nick," said Patricia, sternly. Her heart had begun to sink again. "I wasn't going to talk to you like this; but I must." Harry waved his hand, as if giving her free permission to change her mind without restraint. "I want to ask you several things. You needn't answer if you don't want to...."
"You want to ask me about Rhoda!" suggested Harry, his smile deepening. There was no quelling his easy confidence.
"That was one thing," admitted Patricia, also in no way superficially discomposed, although her heart was struggling.
"I thought so. Well, now, Rhoda—mind, I'm very fond of her—is nothing at all to me."
"Has she been?"
"Oh! Oh!" He protested at such a demand. "No, she hasn't been. I admit that she may think ... I'd better put it like this: she thinks she's in love with me."
"I see. Then, the other thing I wanted to ask is this. You see, I'm not sure if I'm in love with you or not."
"You soon would be," he interrupted. "Sure, I mean. I'm in love with you."
"That was just it. You've been in love before."
"Lots of times. Never as much as this, Patricia!" He stretched his hands towards her. Patricia hesitated. Then she shook her head.
"You mustn't joggle me," she said. "I've got to find out for myself."
"Well, was that all you wanted to ask me? If so, I'll tell you something. You've got the most beautiful eyes, Patricia; and your little mouth changes every——"
"That wasn't all," cried Patricia, and stammered, the warmth rising to her cheeks. She could see him so near, and his ardent glance and air of conscious and indulgent charm were intoxicating to her; and she was shot through and through with the knowledge that Harry could be brutal and harsh and tyrannical, that he could be brusque and unfeeling; that the thick stream of emotion which she was conscious of recognising in him made for satiety and not for the delicate, whimsical, pervasive love she craved. She had been going to ask him other things—things which it was essential to her peace of mind both now and in the future that she should know; and she could not do so. They, whether she had a right to them or not, were all of no account beside her certainty. He was a stranger at heart, who should have been master of her finest and truest consciousness. Patricia paled, her hands sharply together. "No!" she cried. "I can't marry you. It's too great a risk. I can't do it!"
"And who on earth," said Harry, "who on earth asked you to marry me?"