Arrival at Amy's found her weary and depressed. She had begun once more to take a pessimistic view of her own affairs. When she had rung the bell Patricia had a momentary inclination to run away. To endure a talk here was the last thing for which she was prepared. It had been a ridiculous proposal. She wavered, feeling demoralised. The impulse to flight, however, was frustrated by the appearance at the door of Amy herself, very white and very puffy about the eyes, with a cigarette between her discoloured fingers, and her dress crumpled as though she had been lying down. Her short light-coloured hair was also rough, which strengthened the first quick impression. She looked ill and discontented.
"Oh, it's you," said Amy, not very agreeably. "I thought you'd forgotten I existed."
"Oh, how unkind, Amy. When I've come to see you!" cried Patricia, in rebuke.
"It's about time." Amy, after this laconic protest against neglect, led the way to the studio, and closed the door. Her gas-fire was fully alight, and a book lay face downwards upon a table which bore the remains of a meagre lunch. The bed had been made, and the brilliantly coloured spread was over it, but the studio was untidy and unswept. The early dusk was darkening it, and the whole place had a dispirited air which chilled the visitor to the heart.
"I'm not going to excuse myself," continued Patricia, briskly, to cover her shrinking. "I'm a beast, and I know it, and I'm sorry. Don't be hard on me. I've been having a rushing time. How are you?"
Amy looked at her sourly, and Patricia was shocked to see how thoroughly ill she seemed. There was increased discontent in her expression, and the unkempt air she wore showed that Amy was taking no care of herself or of her person.
"I've seen you; and I've heard about you," Amy said.
"I hope I looked nice." Patricia was being painfully cheeky, because she was afraid. She had never been so afraid as she had been since her parting with Harry. "Are you all right?" The question was not merely perfunctory: it was drawn from her by real pity.
"No. I'm not. Patricia, I feel perfectly awful. Not with you—everything. I can't work, I can't do anything. I don't know what I shall do. I feel desperate."
"What's been happening?" Full of concern, Patricia turned from throwing her mackintosh over a chair, and regarded Amy with eyes in which contempt and dread mingled with her sympathy.