Rob made his way out of the house. He knew that this had to be. He had feared for months that it might end thus. Patricia, if she were indeed what she had seemed of late, would act in his life as a deadweight, hindering the work to which he was vowed, dragging him constantly earthward. He had feared; yet he had waited and hoped. Now matters had come to a climax, and Patricia herself had settled the question.
Whether he was more grieved, or in a certain sense more relieved, he could not yet have told. Her beauty had an extraordinary power over him; so that, when with her, he found it desperately hard to offer opposition, not to let her have her own way. Yet the last few months had brought to him deep disappointment. Not even a lover's devotion could permanently blind him to the truth that, within that exquisite casket, little was to be found beyond mental emptiness. Or, if Mind were there—and at times he felt sure it was—it had never been exercised, had never been called forth. He found in her no companionship, no understanding, no sympathy, no true intercourse.
Rob had long fought against the knowledge, had viewed her with indulgence, had made all possible excuses. He loved her still, and the thought that she was no longer his made the whole world look blank, and robbed life of its joy. Still, far below the chill desolation which had him in its grip, there was also a dim sense of regained freedom. In years to come, he might well be thankful to have had things thus decided for him.
He did not go home, but caught the next train, and from London wrote a line to his mother, simply stating that "all was over" between himself and Patricia.
A cheerful note from Patricia to Pen endorsed this. "We don't feel that we are suited, so it is by mutual consent," she said. Then she expressed an urgent hope that it might make no difference as to her "little charade." She would still want the help of Magda and Merryl.
"How like Patricia!" somebody remarked, as Pen handed over the note indifferently.
Pen had that day become engaged, and she had small interest to spare for other people's concerns.
Somebody else suggested—"So now Magda will be able, after all, to keep house for Rob by-and-by!"
That set Magda thinking. She wondered that she had not at once remembered the possibility; and she wondered still more that the idea did not wear its old radiant colouring. It certainly did not.
Patricia, with undaunted courage, set to work to re-organise her plans. Ivor, after a good deal of persuading, at length consented to take that part in the charade which Rob had refused. Bee Major, thenceforward, looked as if her world lay under a June sky. And Ned Fairfax undertook the comic character; with a proviso that he could not come down till a day or two before the evening. He would learn his part in readiness; learning by heart was no trouble to him; and no doubt a single rehearsal would be sufficient. Patricia was piqued at what she called "his cool assurance;" but since she could find nobody else, she agreed.