And a sigh of relief from Patricia, at sight of the keen haggard face turned questioningly towards her. No, she need make no allowances for this woman; this woman was a fighter.
"Don't say you're pleased to see me; you won't be in a minute, when I've told you why I came. Look here—do you mind if I go straight to the point? ... because I'm rather nervous really; and you do look as if you were of the right stuff!"
Kathleen raised her thin black brows. "You flatter me. I haven't the faintest notion who you are, but a sensation is always pleasant on a dull day.... So sit down, and make yourself at home."
"You're sarcastic—good. It's not a weapon I can use myself; not with much effect, that is—but I can appreciate it in others. Hasn't Gareth told you about me?"
"No—but you have ... now. Well, under the circumstances, it's original of you to call upon me, Miss O'Neill."
"Taken it like a brick," murmured Patricia. "But you aren't fond of him, which accounts for the calmness. That's an enormous weight off my mind. Now, as you can't be quite sure of the circumstances, even after that tell-tale quiver in my voice which I suppose gave the whole show away—or was it my damnable habit of flushing?—do you mind if I just enlighten you?"
"Go on."
Patricia sprang to her feet, clasped her hands behind her, fingers tightly interlocked. In spite of her assumption of lightness, she was finding this interview with Gareth's wife something of a strain.
"I'm in love with your husband, and he's in love with me. We've known each other about a month. I want him, and you've got him ... and unless you and I talk it out clearly and coherently, we can go on messing about for ages. I hate mess—I fancy you do, too. And Gareth is too chivalrous ever to be quite blunt with you over facts."
"I'm glad to hear that you appreciate Gareth," remarked Kathleen, darting her youthful rival an upward look of rapier mockery.