"No, I'm no good. I'm no good to anybody...." There was a long tormented pause. Very low, with a sudden flush of blood to the cheeks, in an almost vicious despair:
"Except Monty...."
iv
There was a letter from Monty lying beside her plate upon the breakfast-table. It said:
"Dear Patricia: Come to dinner—here—to-morrow night ('To-night' when you get this). We'll dine and talk, and perhaps go and dance somewhere. Monty."
"Here" was his own house in South Hampstead. Patricia read the note as a command, and her brows were raised. Then she re-read it as an appeal. Her heart began to beat a little faster. For the first time she was repelled by the warning sense of danger. It was in a mood entirely reckless that she threw the letter aside, determined to go. The hardness was again in her eyes. It was as though she had snapped her fingers at Edgar; but her heart was heavy, and the curve of her lips was that of shame and defiance.
v
Monty sat in the studio waiting for his visitor. Those hangings which had supplied such barbaric decoration upon the night of the September party had been replaced. The whole studio was filled with colour, blazing from wall to wall. And Monty sat in sombre Napoleonic gloom amid the marvels of his invention. His face gave no sign of the slow and melancholy thoughts which were passing steadily, processionally, before his concentrated attention. Monty never hurried. He always saw his way clear before taking any step. He had a slow, fatalistic patience which was almost always rewarded.
For weeks now Monty had thought that Patricia Quin was desirable. He had seen her first at his own party in September, and since then upon many occasions. He had looked at her at first, speculating, with the cool observation of a connoisseur. There was much grace, much wilfulness: her movements were delightful, and the play of her light emotions full of singular interest. For a little while Monty had wondered how innocent she really might be; for he appreciated freshness as much as any traditional roué could have done, and he disliked what was callow. His experience of women also made him suspicious of the assumption of purity in such young women as interested him. One of Monty's precepts had been "You cannot shock a woman." It revealed in him a standpoint already fixed.
As he had seen Patricia his interest in her had grown. She amused him by her confidence, her ignorance; she was fresh, and she had spirit. Moreover, when he thought of her, Monty had the air of one grimly smiling. Spirit in a young girl entertained him: it could be played with, and tormented. With its positive effects upon those less sophisticated than himself he had no concern. For Monty it had no positive effects, since he was entirely impervious to the behavior of others where his own determination was engaged. Such a spirit would be amusing to break. Nothing more. Even as he thought that, Monty had an increased stolidity of air. But his interest was not only in her spirit, which was probably the mark of unstable will. Patricia seemed to him in every way delectable. She was unspoilt; she was to be won by flattery; she was to be kept by insolence.