"Quite. I'm Patricia really; but I thought it sounded haughty."
"I prefer you as Patricia," he reflected.
"That's very dear and sweet of you, but—where's my book?"
"It may have been mislaid; I'll make due enquiries; and we will let you know our decision as soon as possible."
Patricia O'Neill pondered on this for a moment. Then shook her head. "Not good enough. If I went to the boarding-school where I had placed my wee childie—be not amazed; this is pure hypothesis!—and they said: 'She—or he—may have been mislaid,' I wouldn't say: 'Thank you very much,' and go home to my tea; dear me, no; not a bit of it!"
"Does the book mean as much to you as a child?" He had to torment himself with these questions.... And quite irrelevantly, he wondered how old she was; she looked about twenty-three.
"Well, just at present it's rather in the middle of my world, and——Hang your questions!" she flared at him, in sudden hot indignation; "are they going to accept it or not? You must know—and I will know."
He sharpened a pencil to a very minute point, before, carefully non-committal, he informed her: "I think I can promise you a decision in a week from to-day."
"Come now, that's very pleasing—almost human,"—with one of her mournful tantalizing smiles she apologized for her recent outburst. "I'll reward you by going at once, so that those two poor harassed fellows skulking below can come up and have their tea in peace."
Gareth badly wanted to ask her to come out and have tea with him; but some hidden impulse forbade any such proceeding until he should have remedied the injury of her book held back.