Nevertheless, Monty did not under-rate the address which might be required in winning Patricia. He had dealt previously with young women who were without experience of love. He foresaw that Patricia would be shy as a doe, ready at a single alarming move to fly. She could be flattered, interested, cajoled, by way of her vanity; but not yet was the moment to be ruthless. That, perhaps, was a part of the game. Patricia could be roused, indulged, enjoyed, slowly punished. At least she must be handled with finesse. Monty calculated his finesse.
A point which alarmed him was that his own interest had grown beyond what he had at first imagined that it would be. He had not been, at any time, wholly cold-blooded in his design. That was not the whole of Monty's nature. He had a slow, rising passion; and it was this which determined his actions in all matters of sex. But he had been surprised to find, especially at their last two meetings, that Patricia's innocence, and her virgin coldness, had moved him to an unexpected degree of desire. Only by the greatest self-control had he refrained from alarming her.
Monty appeared to sleep as he sat in his chair in that barbarically-decorated room with the glass roof. A look of heaviness spread across his face. Slowly his head fell back among the cushions. He was intently listening, and his eyes were closed.
Monty had been right. The noise he had heard had been that made by the bell. An instant later the studio door opened and Patricia appeared, demure, even roguish, but pale and, as he immediately saw, in a state of over-strained nerves which signalled caution. She was alarmed by the sense of danger, in no mood of submission, but as timid as a wild bird. So much was clear even from her glance round the empty studio, the involuntary sway of recoil which marked her realisation of its emptiness.
"Hullo!" cried Patricia, in greeting. "Am I the first?"
"You're the most welcome," Monty assured her. "Come and sit down. What a cold hand! Is it so very cold out?"
"Freezing," Patricia assured him. "And it's a horrid journey, you know."
"How stupid of me!" murmured Monty. "Yes, that's very stupid. I'm so sorry. It's unpardonable of me."
"Never mind. It's really quite all right. Who else is coming?" she asked, eagerly. "Not that I need anybody else, of course." The quick addition was a conscious attempt to placate him, the result of an effort to seem more experienced than in fact she was. It did not deceive Monty.
"That's so kind," he answered. "To dinner—nobody. I thought you wouldn't mind just ourselves. But afterwards there are several people—Felix, and ... oh, I forget. Rudge and Cynthia Blent and Mackinnon and Timothy Webster. Several more. But they won't be here till good and late."