ii

In the afternoon there was a noise at the door, and Lucy put in a pink face. She was washed, and she looked mysterious. A finger was to her lips.

"Some'dy downstairs," she whispered, her lips framing the words. "Miss Roberts. Shall I let her come up?"

Patricia welcomed the thought of a visitor. She brightened at once.

"Oh, anybody!" she cried, with a great breath of relief at the prospect of escape from her solitude, and the gnawing thoughts to which she was offering so steadfast a resistance.

"Right!" cried Lucy, who had been secret from a sense of diplomacy. Patricia, hastily scrambling useless papers together, heard Lucy trample down to the front door and send Amy up; and so she went out on to the dark landing to guide and exhort her friend. She was really delighted to see the dim form which she knew to be that of Amy rounding the difficult corner and achieving the ascent. Eagerly she stretched a hand to bring her friend within the tiny, ugly room.

"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Come in. I'm in a muddle; but come in."

"What stairs!" Patricia heard Amy gasp. Then she saw the visitor throw off a cloak and a light hat, and toss her hair. There was a moment's silence as they scrutinised each other. "Patricia, I had to come and see you. You didn't write, or anything." The agitation which Patricia was feeling was as nothing to the agitation which Amy showed. She looked ghastly, and the climb had made her breathe gaspingly. Her lips looked blue.

"I ought to have come." Patricia was filled with remorse.

"No. I—felt I had to see you after the other day. You know, the day you came to see me, and Harry Greenlees came."

"Well!" Patricia gave a startled exclamation. Then she sat down and began to laugh. "What ages ago it seems!" Really, it was incredible! She had almost forgotten the studio and Amy's warning and Harry's arrival. So much had happened in the interval, so poignant had been her emotions, that the reference made her breathless. "Well!"

"I heard Harry was going abroad," pursued Amy, again with that sharp scrutiny. "I was afraid...."

"Afraid? Oh, that I might be going, too! But why, Amy? I should have thought you would have known ... Nothing could happen to me—ever—that I didn't ... I thought ... I thought a girl ought to be free to live with any man she chose ... to see...."

Patricia was half-laughing. For this moment she was malicious in the ridicule of such singular concern. She was immediately to learn the occasion of it. Amy, who sat in the only armchair in the room, which had been covered with horsehair, and super-covered (as it were) by a loose envelope that was washable, looked disagreeably back at Patricia in recognition of such levity. Her face, under the stress of recent events, was losing its clearness, and was developing a rough greyness of colour. Her eyes protruded, and the rims of them were faintly pink. Amy was ageing quickly. By thirty she might be unsightly. She was old, and stale, and without any sort of colour or imagination or quality. She repelled Patricia, as a poor relation might have repelled a busy man in difficulties, or as a sick person repels a healthy one.

"I know," she whispered. "I've tried it. I went down to the country with Jack. But I couldn't stand it. It was awful. I left him as soon as we got there. Patricia, I couldn't have stayed there with him."

Patricia wheeled round at the incredible announcement. She stared at her friend. An exclamation burst from her lips.

"But Jack!" she cried. "Jack!"

Amy misunderstood her; she thought Patricia was still in a state to harp on the inconsiderateness to Jack.

"Oh, he doesn't matter. He's quite all right——."

"I was thinking ... Yes ... I expect he's all right; but I was thinking...." stammered Patricia. She was aghast. "Why on earth, if you were going, did you go with somebody who bores you? Surely it was madness! Oh, my dear! ... Amy, you must admit that Jack...."

"I know. I know. He is idiotic. I don't know why I did it. It seems ridiculous—now. But he kept on saying I ought to go away; and it seemed impossible to go away alone. So I thought—well: he's supposed to love me. If I can bear it, perhaps.... You see, I was in despair. Well, it's no good: that's all. I've been in hell. I got into the next train, leaving him there. I simply went out without telling him, and fortunately caught the only possible train back. It was dreadful to see the train coming, and watch the road in case Jack was coming, too ... I felt insane!"

"So I should think," said Patricia. "Poor Amy!" She had not really any pity for Amy; but she did not know what else to say to this inglorious tale. If she had imagined it, she would have shuddered as at a squalor. She hesitated, her brain active. Then, sharply, she demanded: "Have you seen Jack since?"

Amy nodded, tears in her eyes. She was the picture of lugubriousness. But the colour was rising to her cheeks.

"He says he's finished with me," she pulped. "We've had a flaming row. He was filthy!"

"Good!" cried Patricia, almost with vicious emphasis.

There was a moment's horrified pause. Then Amy, ignoring the ejaculation, continued:

"However, I shall never be rid of him. He isn't the sort. He'll always be thinking I'll change, and be pestering me. He's like a cur. The more you kick him, the closer he sticks. I've only got to whistle. I loathe him. Don't let's talk about Jack. It was only that I had to tell you!" She paused, and then, in a minute, resumed: "Oh, Patricia, I've begun painting again, you'll be glad to hear. I was a fool ever to take any notice of Felix. Of course, you know what the explanation of that was! Mere sexual jealousy. Men simply can't bear a woman to be an artist. It damages their singularity. It was all a part of the sex conspiracy. I might have known! All this upset has revived my ambition. It's done me good, in fact. It's given me impetus. I'm doing something that's going to be really good."

Patricia addressed Amy.

"Amy," she said. "You've finished with Jack. If he hasn't finished with you, you must be finished with him. For a man who will still stick to you after that must be an idiot. He couldn't be any good to you. And if you are going back to painting after swearing as you did that you had done with it, I shall never understand you. It seems preposterous. Why, I can remember—Amy, you were absolutely finished with it. My dear, what's the good? As for sex conspiracy—it's laughable! I think you've been behaving very badly, indeed."

"Indeed!" cried Amy, shocked into vituperation by such an onslaught. "And what about yourself, pray? When it comes to bad behaviour?"

It was unanswerable. Patricia flushed, staring.

At this moment, while the two of them were mutually speechless with active hostility, Lucy, interpreting liberally Patricia's welcome to "anybody," and also possibly rather intrigued by the appearance of the caller, personally ushered into the room a second visitor. It was Claudia. She had crossed the landing with a single impetuous step, and her eagerness brought fresh air into the stuffy little room. Her tallness, her dark complexion, the rich crimson of her astrakhan-trimmed cloak, were all such as to make her distinguished. There was animation in Claudia's face which showed her health and tranquillity. The quick immature grace of her movement was lovely. She was free from all self-consciousness. Only at sight of Amy—stricken by contrast into absolute sickliness of appearance—did she pull up short.

"Oh," she gasped. "I didn't know.... Sorry!"

"Come in!" Even to Patricia it was evident that Claudia's entry had brought radiance to the room. She hurried across to greet her. "This is my friend Amy Roberts—Miss Mayne."

"I'll go," cried Amy, rising from the armchair.

"No, no. Don't be silly." "Oh, don't ... I shall feel...." There were two protests. But Amy was injured, wounded.

"Yes. I've said all I'd got to say. And listened to some plain speaking. Very plain. And I must get back to my studio. I'll astonish everybody yet! I'm an artist, Miss Mayne, and I can't leave my work for long." She fumbled with her cloak.

"But I shall feel I've driven you away!" cried Claudia, with a puzzled smile.

"You needn't." Amy was brusque in the effort to be dignified; and as she flung on her cloak and hat she gave Claudia a frigid smile. "I was just going in any case." And with that she went to the door. "Good-bye."

"Excuse me." Patricia's glance of reassurance led Claudia to remain, and, as the two others disappeared, to remove her own cloak, and to await Patricia's return. She looked quickly round the shabby room—at the typewriter, the table-cover, the rug, the stained wall-paper, and the glass with the gilt frame. Then she went to the window to glance at the dingy outlook, and returned to sniff the gas-fire.

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Claudia, very privately to herself. "The poor thing's stewed alive in smuts up here. It's a horrible place—all mouldy. No wonder she's conceited! I should be, myself. She's a dear! As for the other one—pooh!"