ii

Within an hour he was indoors, in that house in Kensington where Patricia had realised what the word "home" might mean. The house was still; the servants were quiet-footed and the carpets were thick. Doors, well-made and heavy, closed gently and remained closed, without rattling. Even Pulcinella was subdued by even-tide, except upon the arrival of a member of the family much beloved. Then no amount of custom could stale the little dog's rapture. Edgar admitted himself, and washed, and went down to the brown room upon the mezzanine floor which was his own room, where there was a fire, and where books upon white-enamelled shelves warmed the walls from floor to ceiling and made them cordially glow with companionship. He had an hour before dinner, an hour in which to vent his anger and exasperation, in which to contemplate his broken heart. And when he reached the room he spent his hour in doing none of these things. He sat instead and tried to decide what he was going to do about Patricia. For he had now definitely made up his mind that Patricia was to be won. No young woman is so ostentatiously decided when she has in fact made up her mind.

At the same time, Patricia was a mystery to Edgar. He could have named her traits with scarcely a grievous error in observation; but, this done, she would still have been a mystery. A man who behaved as she was obviously in the habit of behaving could have had no interest for Edgar. If he had not loved Patricia he would have found her insufferable. But he loved her. The secret Edgar—who was all heart—loved her; the outward Edgar merely received impressions of her. The impressions might constantly be disagreeable—some of them were wholly disagreeable;—but they slipped into the heart of the secret Edgar, which was big enough to hold them all. And it was this secret Edgar who conned the mystery, with rather more humour than the outward Edgar was always supposed to possess. Which explains why Edgar's ruminations were interrupted by laughter—not loud, hearty, hopelessly solemn laughter; but laughter that was a catching of the breath, explosive, and then silent.

"She is the most preposterous creature that ever lived," said Edgar. "The most conceited, blind, ridiculous little fathead...."

He would not have dared to communicate this view of Patricia to anybody alive. He would not have dared to mention it even to Claudia. Even to hint the smallest part of it to Patricia herself would have been the act of a madman. And yet to himself Edgar was frank and fair about it. Because Edgar knew that when he said or thought such a thing every word was qualified and softened by an emotion in himself towards the object of his laughter which was without comparison the most precious thing in his life.