He wrote to her, saying he had news that could not possibly be imparted by letter—though why not, was a matter entirely between him and his God!—and would she do him the pleasure of meeting him to-morrow (Saturday) at half-past two, at the bookstall of the Piccadilly Tube, and have tea with him?
He told Kathleen that evening that he would be detained at the office the following afternoon for some special work connected with the "White Review." Unlike what had been her contemptuous method of tossing him some entirely inadequate excuse at the period when she was deceiving him with Napier Kirby, he was very punctilious in the details of his falsehood; and kept on nervously elaborating it, feeling somehow less guilty as he did so....
After all, it was business detaining him; Alexander had as good as bidden him inform the author of "The Reverse of the Medal" that the firm was favourably considering the novel.... Had Alexander issued any such message? By the time Gareth had separately dealt with Kathleen and with his own conscience, he could not remember any more what was the unveiled truth of the matter....
"Shall we go for a saunter in the country?" suggested Patricia O'Neill, directly on encounter; "we can change from this line for Chorley Wood; and the weather is just as I like it!"
Through the Tube entrance could be seen a pale leaden sky, and a hailstorm lashing the pavement. But Gareth was so relieved at her easy assumption of command, that he assented enthusiastically to all she said: certainly, it was just the afternoon for a country stroll.... She directed him to the booking-office; then down to the train—change safely effected at Baker Street ... and they found themselves perforce divided until arrival at Chorley Wood.
"Which way? I'm quite helpless, you know!" he smiled at her confidentially, as they emerged from the small country station into a slanting fury of hail.
"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows ... about three miles from here. We'll go and pick it for tea. Come along—to the right; I'm at home in these parts. Why, what's all this going on over my head?" as, looking joyfully skywards, she found her view blocked by an affair of silk and spikes; "my dear man, I appreciate your delicious old-world courtesy, truly I do, and none more than I ... I used to paint it on satin. But for Heaven's sake remove that obstreperous object!"
"I don't want you to get wet," said Gareth gently, still shielding her with his umbrella. "You had better take my arm."
Patricia's eyes danced ... and suddenly she yielded. She was being rather good to him, for she detested umbrellas, never caught cold, liked best to swing along free and aloof, and had bitten back several flippantly witty comments to his request—simply because she both liked and respected this man with the rugged handsome face, and the wistful smile; and instinct told her how immeasurably her refusal to accede to his manly protection, would hurt him at this juncture. Besides, why not accept with appreciative good grace the different wares that were offered her at their different times of offering? Stirring taste of matched equality with Dacres Upton; and Temple's grave romantic charm that savoured of a bygone era. With the gesture of slipping her hand through his arm, Patricia's fancy envisioned him in a tall beaver hat, mull-coloured breeches, and three-caped overcoat ... herself in dove-colour, with a large poke bonnet and a trustful expression.