Amy became for the first time really intense. She rose from the bed and came across the studio, and Patricia could see her red eyes and the terrible white face all disfigured with angry grief.
"You're not his mistress, are you?" demanded Amy. "You poor fool!"
How far Patricia had travelled since their previous talk about girls and their lovers. She was not now stricken with shame at such a suggestion. She was merely indignant.
"Be quiet, Amy!" she cried. "You can't talk like that!"
Amy gave a short laugh, raising her arms in the air in a gesture of offensive marvel.
"Beautiful!" she said. "Beautiful!"
As they faced each other, both desperately angry, with opposed glances of hostility, breathing quickly in their common agitation, there came a ringing at the bell of Amy's studio. Slowly the blood rose and flooded Patricia's cheeks. She knew who was without. All her anger died. Its place was taken by fear. She was paralysed, knowing that the moment she had dreaded was upon her.
vii
Harry entered the studio with impetuosity, and his height and energy made it a normal-sized room. He made no pretence of having come to see Amy, but as soon as he caught sight of Patricia he addressed her.
"I thought I might find you here," he said, and stopped. His eyes embraced her, and Patricia's heart leapt. Then, uncontrollably, she turned away while Harry looked at Amy. "Sorry to be unceremonious; but I'd been to Patricia's," he said cheerfully. "Found she was out. How are you, Amy? I hear you've been having a fracas with old Felix. Poor old Felix! I wonder how he's feeling now, eh? Jolly rough on him—what? Now I want to get hold of Patricia, because we're going to a football match on Saturday, and didn't fix up a time of meeting. You don't mind, do you?"