And what was the proper conversational reply to be made by one who was not quite the girl's mother, when confronted by this painful stress of emotion, the sweet-faced little lady had not the remotest notion. But she nerved herself finally to go upstairs. As she neared Pat's room, she heard sounds that were ominous. And yet—surely, surely it could not be that the girl was singing?
"Pat ... how—how are you?"
"Very brisk indeed, darling," Patricia assured her; Patricia, who was neither prone across the bed, nor in floods of tears, nor protesting that she would rather die ... nor in any way giving vent to maidenly sentiments.
Mrs. O'Neill was mightily relieved; and—faintly disappointed.
"Is there nothing—nothing you want to ask me about, my dear? I thought ... I wondered...."
And suddenly Patricia understood; and understood the disappointment as well; and choked down the mischievous retort so ready to her lips. The twentieth-century girl has little need of this stammering hour of instruction.... But Pat crossed the room to her step-mother, and dropped on both her knees in front of her, taking her hands.
"I'm so glad you came up.... Yes, please, you can help me.... I want to know——"
They went for a short wedding-journey to the Fen Country. Patricia had roamed before on and about these eerie desolate lands; and found a curious fascination in the monotony of ancient sea-wall and sluggish river, and sail flat against the unchanging horizon. So did Gareth; at least, he thought he did, but was not quite sure. He was so happy that he would have glorified Wormwood Scrubbs or Manchester as ideal honeymoon resorts. He flung such quantities of word-drapery over the landscape; over the little inn at which they stayed; over sky and water and oozing mud-creeks; over Fen-legend and tradition, and the Isle of Ely and the port of Lynn; over Patricia herself and the future, and the books that might be written—should be written, and the books that were already written; and over infinity, and the wonder of their daily breakfast together ... until Patricia protested at last that in view of the fact that she had married a strong, silent man, his fluent babblings were disgracefully out of character.
Then home to number seventeen Blenheim Terrace. Gareth returned to his work at the firm of Leslie Campbell. And Patricia applied herself seriously to the suppression of her restive desire for authorship.... It was fun to be aware of this power within her, and voluntarily to keep it under hatches like a mutineer; fun ... perpetual bonfire to the altar she had set up in the middle of her world; fun, to refrain from writing, that Gareth should write and write and write.