ii

That morning it occurred to her to look at her bank-book. Two manuscripts had been returned through the post; and as she ate her breakfast Patricia suddenly recollected that she had not had anything accepted for some weeks. A tremor went through her. Her eyes flinched. Supposing.... With some anxiety she counted the small amount of money in her purse. And then, as she continued to sit in that constricted room with the low ceiling and the sun-stained wall-paper, the room seemed to grow darker. The oilcloth and rug grew more tawdry. The whole of her surroundings were seen as deplorable. Patricia had thought little of money lately, for she had given all her attention to the delightful play that was in progress; and she had worked without earnest endeavour. It had not appeared necessary, and the fancies had come with ease. So often her eyes had wandered, and her memories and anticipations had become exciting; and when that happened the pen strayed on only half-heeded, or remained quite still upon the table. And now, with this awakening, what she had written seemed to Patricia silly and babyish and without value, with all the pleasant sportiveness by which it had been inspired wholly evaporated. And she found that she had other things to face besides the loss of Harry.

For a few minutes she pretended that there was nothing to fear, that there must lie pounds and weeks between the moment and the end of comfort. Her confidence was staunch. Nothing to fear ... nothing to fear.... She was Patricia Quin. Just as she felt that she would never die, so Patricia felt that she would never want. It was true, perhaps. And yet when her thoughts tried to create money out of nothing it did not seem clear how she was to live ... presently ... soon ... very soon....

Without preparation, Patricia's courage suddenly deserted her. She lost her nerve. She no longer had her dream of Harry: she was awake: she was stifling. And disaster lay ahead. She wasn't any good.... She was afraid.

"I'm afraid," she whispered to herself, with bowed head. "I'm a coward!" It was for Patricia a terrible confession. Energy, confidence, egotism as a rule sustained her in every shock. Now these things were deserting her in face of a spectre. In vain did she rally. It was true: she was afraid.