"I love you," Monty told her. "You were surprised. You were shocked...." He was still persisting in his former attitude because his imagination was not quick enough to anticipate the changes of this chameleon. But he was admiring her perhaps more than he had already done, and finding her still very desirable.
"I was horrified," Patricia said slowly. "But we're not talking about the same thing." She was very serious now. And the fact that she was serious made her again baffling to Monty, who had expected tears or reproaches or formal forgiveness, and was trying to discover some new point of contact which would at least gain time. Given time, he thought he was always assured of victory; but he was in a difficulty. She had changed, slipping out of his power to dominate her; and he had not the key to the change, for that lay in Patricia's singular vision.
"We're talking about...."
"No," said Patricia. "I came here in a reckless state, because I'd been very miserable; and you asked me to come because you wanted to make love to me."
"And I frightened you," said Monty quickly. "Poor little girl!"
"You did me a lot of good," answered Patricia. "You shocked me into my senses."
Monty stared at her, his dark eyes glowing, and his face once more alight with admiration. She saw him moisten his lips, and saw his hands clenched by his sides. But also, from another point altogether, she heard a faint incomprehensible sound. At once she strained her ears; but Monty had heard no sound, and continued to stare at her. The sound Patricia thought she had heard was a tiny crunching of gravel outside the house. She stared back at Monty, her nerves quivering. Dread was back in her heart.
"There's nothing to fear," said Monty, in his level voice of reassurance. "I'm not going to lose my head again as I did early in the evening. I beg your pardon for that." Patricia bowed her head again in acknowledgment of his apology; but she was no longer heeding his tactical advances. As he spoke, her eyes were glancing from Monty to the window. She looked so slim and fair, with the golden light of the room evoking the gold in her hair and the delicate gleam of colour in her cheeks, that Monty was moved anew as he had been earlier in the evening. He was engrossed in her, his eyes avid and his excitement intense. "By God, you know, you're beautiful, Patricia," he whispered. "Look here, we'll go together to the East, and you shall see all those wonders for yourself." She did not seem to be listening. Monty played his trump card. "We'll be married, d'you see, and go straight to the East together; and you shall have...."
In his eagerness, Monty came towards her, his hands outstretched. He was continuing, with increasing vehemence, when Patricia interrupted him. She would have cried out that what he offered was unthinkable, but, as she made the effort to speak, her eyes were caught by something that stifled the words. She could only stand there, looking beyond Monty, to the doorway, her lips parted as if in the act of speech, her body rigid with amazement. For there, just within the room, silhouetted against the golden door, was another person—a woman, heavily cloaked, with the hood of her dark cloak shrouding her face, a woman who had heard the last speech as she swiftly and silently opened the door, and who stood perfectly white, as if she were stone. Within the fold of the hood Patricia saw two glittering eyes. All else was white, ghastly.
"Really!" said the woman, in a breathless tone, as if she were stricken with illness. "Monty!"