The months gyrated dizzily, with song-sound as of the humming of many tops.... Autumn now—Patricia's favourite season. Red October affected her as April affects most natures; exhilarated her body; crammed her soul with restless flying hopes.... The hours she snatched alone with Dacres were too frequent for longing to crust itself with peace; insufficient for a generous passion waxing to its zenith. More and ever more their talk recurred to that truant week at the end of December; week which was to contain two days' wakeful journey at the start and at the finish of it, like white sentinels guarding the three central days, shutting them off to the aloofness of enchantment.
On the fifth of December Patricia received from Dacres the following letter, which she read at the family breakfast-table:
"I've met the woman who means all life to me, and death, and beyond death. I've no excuses to make for myself, Patricia—except that I warned you that I was not to be trusted. Did you take in the warning?—I hope so.
"Thank you for the gift of a good time. I can never ask for a better comrade than you have been. Nor do I suppose I will ever admire anyone quite as much as I admire you, now and always.
"Of course our arrangement for December 23rd holds, unless you wish to cancel it. Personally, I'm looking forward immensely to our week of winter-sport.
"Dacres."
"... Coffee, please, Ann." Gently Patricia laid the letter back in its envelope. She would reread it presently, when she was alone; and strive to fathom his motive for this silly gratuitous lie.
A second perusal, when she was lying on the divan of her own sitting-room, convinced her reason beyond all doubt that he wrote the truth. Behind reason, every nerve and sense and feeling quivered their protest, clamoured in startled incredulity.... "Why—he loved you! he loved you!..."
Hm ... love! Strange to think that he had been right in his grave self-indictment; right in his warning to her. He was what the world would term a "rotter"; what she herself, one day, would dismiss with scornful appellation of "the wrong sort of man."... Meanwhile, there was a thick dark fog to be traversed between "one day" and the present hour ... she could see how black, but she could not tell yet how long. Beyond the fog, the clear road again, and sunshine, and freedom, and the day-long tramp, light-hearted and light of heel....
Patricia sprang impatiently from the couch; crossed to the window; stood looking out across the fantastic patchwork of roofs spread below her....