And again she tingled to a queer excitement in being able to perform these active interferences with destiny.
Yes—Gareth's book should be published when hers was withdrawn to clear the way for him. He loved his book. It could not but be a beautiful and scholarly expression of what was greatest in himself. Posterity would lose nothing by the exchange.
But that interview with the partners had cost her something—had pulled out resolution to the snapping-point; they had dangled success so very alluringly before her eyes....
Gareth's visit, his inarticulate incredulous wonder, had been reward enough. Tenderly she had loved him, and worshipfully.... But when suddenly he forgot control, and had held her and kissed her as a man kisses a woman—sometimes, then she too had forgotten tenderness and worship, and had given him back the love a woman gives to a man—once.
... And then he had spoken of Kathleen. It was a slight shock, but the girl recovered quickly. She was clenched in her determination that her life and Gareth's should be fused. Obstacles only incited her the more. The question now to be solved was the nature of this particular obstacle. The situation was an old one: husband and wife and the third; but Patricia introduced a variation by resolving in her most sunny headlong fashion to go and see Kathleen, and find out—as she expressed it—exactly what she was up against. Perhaps this wife would also prefer to fight an adversary whose strength she had measured. It was a mere absurd convention that the rival protagonists for the soul and body of a man should not meet and talk it over. Besides, Patricia was curious: was Kathleen fond of him? passionately fond of him? Was she a weak drab little creature for whom one's pity and forbearance would willy-nilly be demanded?—or else a shrew and a tyrant, who loudly and stubbornly would stick out for her rights in Gareth? Kathleen ... intellect, or flesh-and-blood, or a habit? Whichever it was, she would have to go on the bonfire!
Patricia went the next afternoon to Pacific Villa.
... So this was where Gareth lived.... A queer lump came to her throat at sight of the commonplace, hideous little red-brick residence in its row of commonplace red brick. And if this was the house—what might not the wife be like?... Some pretty waxen thing he had idealized when he was dreaming through his twenties; some pretty brainless thing who had grown querulous from social disappointment....
"Oh, my poor man—my poor fine man...."
All this, rushing through her mind, as the tousled maid led her through the tiny hall, and into the parlour.
"Miss O'Neill, ma'am."