In the afternoon there was a noise at the door, and Lucy put in a pink face. She was washed, and she looked mysterious. A finger was to her lips.
"Some'dy downstairs," she whispered, her lips framing the words. "Miss Roberts. Shall I let her come up?"
Patricia welcomed the thought of a visitor. She brightened at once.
"Oh, anybody!" she cried, with a great breath of relief at the prospect of escape from her solitude, and the gnawing thoughts to which she was offering so steadfast a resistance.
"Right!" cried Lucy, who had been secret from a sense of diplomacy. Patricia, hastily scrambling useless papers together, heard Lucy trample down to the front door and send Amy up; and so she went out on to the dark landing to guide and exhort her friend. She was really delighted to see the dim form which she knew to be that of Amy rounding the difficult corner and achieving the ascent. Eagerly she stretched a hand to bring her friend within the tiny, ugly room.
"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Come in. I'm in a muddle; but come in."
"What stairs!" Patricia heard Amy gasp. Then she saw the visitor throw off a cloak and a light hat, and toss her hair. There was a moment's silence as they scrutinised each other. "Patricia, I had to come and see you. You didn't write, or anything." The agitation which Patricia was feeling was as nothing to the agitation which Amy showed. She looked ghastly, and the climb had made her breathe gaspingly. Her lips looked blue.
"I ought to have come." Patricia was filled with remorse.
"No. I—felt I had to see you after the other day. You know, the day you came to see me, and Harry Greenlees came."