"I should like you to meet her," he said.
He was not wholly absorbed, even now, in Patricia. He could see Mrs. Quellan, growing slightly plump, but struggling against middle-age and natural gracelessness with all the energy of those whose youth has been lost in work and anxiety. He could see her husband, thin-haired, pale, and elaborately cheerful over suppressed care. He could see Blanche, so obviously what she was at that table, aged beyond her years, her spirit tired and malignant. And Monty, full of well-being and will and calculation, relentless and immovable in his design. The one fresh and unwarped spirit was Patricia. She was youth incarnate. She had vitality denied to all the others. And she was helpless through inexperience. She was over-confident, warm-hearted, blind.
Edgar shrugged slightly. He also was not without will.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "You must certainly meet Claudia."
vii
At the end of the evening, when they were in the car together, Patricia said:
"I feel sorry for Blanche Tallentyre; but I hate her."
"Well," replied Edgar. "Don't you think she may hate you, as well?"
Patricia did not speak. She was puzzled. She thought for some time before she answered him.
"I meant, I don't think Blanche Tallentyre can ever really have been ..." She paused.