“I am not sure it is a suitable school for you.”
“Since when have you become responsible for my education, sir? Would you prefer my going to school with Charlotte? You are confounding me with Patrimondi. You will end by rolling me out flat on a high-road one day.”
She was talking arrant nonsense in self-defence, for every fibre of her being was quivering at his presence. 304 The old hushed cry awoke in her heart “Christopher and Love—Love and Christopher.” If she looked at him he must see it, her eyes must needs betray the pitiful whisper but for the clamour of foolish words. Where was Renata? Why were they all so late to-night of all nights? Yet she had hurried her dressing—chosen her gown even, on the chance of this interview that outmatched her schooled frivolity. The need to see her face and her eyes again pressed on the man—became imperative—as something of great moment, strangely difficult to achieve.
At last he abruptly spoke her name.
“Patricia.”
She involuntarily turned to him and found what had appeared so hard was quite easy, for she discerned some unusual trouble in his mind, and was woman enough for the mothering instinct to sweep up over the personal love.
“What is it, Christopher?”
He had wit enough to keep his advantage, for there was something to read on the upturned face that must not be deciphered in haste.
“I am seriously worried, Patricia. You might assist instead of hindering me.”
“Well, what is it?”