"Look here, Harry," said Patricia, abruptly. "I don't want to listen to abuse of Amy. I'm sorry for her."
"Oh, God, so am I!" cried Harry, lightly.
"No, I'm really sorry. You don't understand." With sudden indignation, she concluded: "You couldn't ever understand. You don't know enough."
"Well?" He was quite cool. "I see you're in a rage about something."
"I'm not in a rage about anything; but I do resent your coming to the studio as if I belonged to you. You've got no right to do that. I came out because I didn't want a row before Amy."
"Oh! A row!" Harry turned a laughing, coaxing face to her, very sure of himself. His hand was at her arm; but Patricia was completely mistress of herself.
"Yes, a row," she cried, her eyes sparkling afresh. "Let's go and have tea somewhere."
Harry's face was also alight. If Patricia had temper, so, it appeared, had he. They were matched.
"That was exactly my idea," he said impudently. "Let's!"
They walked through into Oxford Street and joined the crowd there. Such teashops as the one at which Patricia had lunched were unsuitable. They were at this hour too crowded for conversation. As a result the journey was for a time without result; but at last they came to a big restaurant at which few visitors to the West End imagined that such a thing as tea would be served. Here it was that, surrounded by innumerable empty tables, and at a distance from half-a-dozen pensive waiters, amid gilded mouldings and huge mirrors and imposing candelabra, Harry and Patricia seated themselves for their talk.