The miles slipped by in unbroken silence. It was not till they were nearly home that Christopher spoke.
“I thought that was all quite gone, Patricia.”
“So did I,” she returned wearily. “It’s ages since I was so stupid. It’s generally all right if you are there.”
“But I’m not always there anyhow.”
“I don’t mean there really. I just shut my eyes and pretend you are and hold on. But just now I waited for you to do something. I forgot you were driving.”
“You mustn’t rely on me to stop you now,” he insisted, with new gravity. 226
“Oh, yes, I do. It’s always you if I stop in time; either you actually, or thinking of you. Don’t talk about it, Christopher dear, it was too horrible.”
She did not explain if she meant the danger or the cause, but he obeyed and said no more. A terrible fear clamoured at his heart. Did Geoffry Leverson know or did he not? and if he knew, would he even understand? He tried to tell himself that if he could manage her, then another, and that her acknowledged lover, could do so too, but he knew this was false reasoning. Such power as he had over her lay in his recognition that the irresistible inheritance was not an integral part of Patricia, but was an exotic growth, foisted upon her by the ill-understood laws of paternity, and finding no natural soil in her pure self—something indeed, of a lower nature, that she must and could override. He could have curbed it in the brief flash just over, he knew, had his attention been free. It had died as it had come and the penalty of the crushed fingers hurt him as unwarrantable, combined with the peril they had run.
It was a fresh addition of cloud to the dimmed day to find Peter Masters had not departed, but was staying the night.