"You silly!" cried Patricia.
All the same, she could not see Harry until she was more composed. It would be impossible. Consent won from her in such circumstances, she knew, would be disastrous. Instinct was sound there! She knew herself well enough to realise that coercion of her impulses would result—not in submission, as it might do in the case of girls less neurotic, but in inhibitions. Therefore she must not see Harry until she was calmer, until she could freely give him the love he demanded. To know this, and to foresee his possible arrival, was to take instant action. She looked out of the window. Last night's storm had been appropriately followed by morning calm. The few clouds in the sky immediately visible from her room were white, and they were racing ferociously to the east. That meant more rain. She would go prepared; but she could not stay at home another minute without increasing her danger.
Quick! Her mackintosh, her waterproof cap! Her handbag, gloves.... In fresh panic, Patricia gathered these necessary things and hurried down the stairs.
"Lucy!" she called to the kitchen. "I'm going out. All day. If anybody comes, say you don't know when I'll be back."
"Righto, miss!" came a faint call in response.
The gusty wind slammed the front door behind her. A hasty glance along the street showed that the path was still clear. With lowered head and beating heart Patricia made her escape, laughing a little at her own fears. Some exultation showed itself also in her inner consciousness—a vanity, a something of the heart. After all, it was something to have a lover of whose determination one could be happily afraid! Panic had its core of delight!
v
An omnibus carried Patricia to Charing Cross, and she walked over to the National Gallery. It was not open yet. The beginning of her day was inauspicious. It became necessary that she should wander about the streets, looking in shops, unless she could think of some alternative to her first improvised plan. She glanced up at the sky, and the rapid movement of the clouds gave her inspiration. The sky was brilliantly blue, and a draughty day in London might well be delightful in the country. But where, cheaply, could she go? The nearest open space would be the best. It required but a moment's reflection to decide what to do. Another omnibus would take her to Hampstead. And so she was once again in movement, and, looking over the side of the vehicle with a curled lip of distaste and a sharp wonder at the people who could bear to live in such districts, she passed through the dinginess of Camden Town and Gospel Oak. From the point of arrival, where the omnibuses rested awhile before they returned once again on their unsteady journey, she quickly reached the Heath.
It was very windy, and the ground beneath her feet was soggy with the rain; but Patricia trudged on valiantly, looking back from the height over that grey fog of rising smoke which marked the daily life of nearer London. All about her was a wide stretch of green, rising and falling from one round height to a lowland where several large ponds spread their black waters. The Heath, and the Parliament Hill Fields, were deserted. It was not the time of year, nor the day of the week, for this enormous and house-bound green to be peopled. Even children were at school. Only an occasional old gentleman or loitering out-of-work passed her, with hastily averted eyes of resentment and fear, and occasionally a girl or nurse with young children in a perambulator ambled by, munching fruit or studying a novelette as she trusted to the rim of grass to keep her path true. The paths yielded to Patricia's feet; the grass concealed mud, and was treacherous. But the fresh air was most sweet, and the exercise improved her morale, and every trouble in the world seemed to have drifted to a convenient distance. Patricia was breathing deeply with relief.
She walked upon the Heath for a couple of hours, and sat awhile upon a seat, exposed to every wind, until the cold began to make her uncomfortable; and then, with a plunge, she returned to the point from which the omnibuses start. Within half-an-hour Patricia was back in the West End, very much better, very much more able to enjoy the crowds in Regent Street and Oxford Street. A short tour brought her to the end of the shops, and she found it was lunchtime. Still further refreshed by a light meal at a neighbouring teashop, she returned to the National Gallery; and stared at pictures until the extremely tiring pastime made her begin to yawn. Patricia knew that it was now—if she was going to keep to the schedule of her planned day—her duty to call upon Amy, and to Amy's studio in Fitzroy Street she accordingly went on foot.