"How unpleasant," remarked Monty. "But you enjoyed yourself, didn't you, Miss Quin? I hope you'll come again when there is a sober party."
"I'd love to," cried Patricia, sparkling. She was happy again, the perplexities arising from her talk with Amy forgotten. "I thought it was a wonderful party."
Monty ran his eye over her, with the quick certainty of a connoisseur. She was fair, fresh, volatile, beautifully shaped; vain, and therefore to be reached by flattery; over-confident, perhaps, of her power to please; but unspoilt and capable of affording him interest and amusement. He had no interest at all in Amy. She was too crudely egotistical, and she was, besides, too set. Monty could have foretold her expressed opinion (not necessarily her true opinion, since she was often, as he knew, unaware of what she really thought) upon every matter that was likely to come up between them. Neither did she interest him physically: for that she was too hard, and although he supposed her to be sensual she appeared to Monty to lack both mystery and abandon. So, although he knew that he could more easily create an artificially-emotional situation with Amy, he gave all his interest to Patricia. There was more in the fresh little new girl, he decided, than in anybody he had recently met. He eyed her appreciatively, as a gourmet may eye a dainty dish. She was interesting. All she did, even if she did nothing but sit quite still upon that enormous cushion beside the gas fire, had grace and personality in it. Especially he noticed that impetuous mouth, which might betray weakness or instability or reckless bravado, but which could never, he was sure, be associated with tedium. He resolved upon a quick stroke. He saw that Amy and Jack were debating something which removed their attention from his own activities, and so he bent towards Patricia.
"I'm so glad you enjoyed the party. Look here ...." He appeared to consider. "I've got a small party on Friday ... I wonder if you'd like to come to that. I'm afraid ... Let me see, there are only about half-a-dozen people...." He was thinking as he spoke, and recollecting the names of his guests. "I think the only one you know who is coming is Mayne. You met him, didn't you? Yes, I remember, you went home in his car. Would you like to come?"
Patricia could have jumped for joy. How lovely!
"I should like to come very much," she made herself say very sedately; but Monty was not so inexperienced in these matters as she might have wished him; and she was not altogether sure that her eagerness had escaped his notice.
"That's delightful," he said in his gentle way. "So nice." He was extraordinarily polite and agreeable. And in an instant it was as though that matter were settled and forgotten. Monty rose and went casually to the easel, Patricia watching him in curiosity as he contemplated the monstrous botch. "Yes," he said at last. "I like that. That bit's awfully well-done, Amy." He indicated with a slowly sweeping hand. Amy was by his side, her expression greedily changed. She was avid of this expert flattery, and eagerly receptive. Jack Penton hung behind. He came over to Patricia, stooping to her.
"Do you like it?" He jerked his head at the painting.
"Very much." Patricia was doing her best. She had not had much experience in catching the true note of art criticism; but a rush of sympathy made her cordial to him, and anxious to say what she imagined he might find in some degree reassuring. Jack shrugged, and took a cigarette-case from his hip-pocket.
"I can't understand it," he said bluntly. "I see an eye, and a blob and a swish; and I can't make it into a picture." He was clearly puzzled and undecided. "I wish I could understand it," he went on. "Suppose I'm dull, or something."