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Monty sat in the studio waiting for his visitor. Those hangings which had supplied such barbaric decoration upon the night of the September party had been replaced. The whole studio was filled with colour, blazing from wall to wall. And Monty sat in sombre Napoleonic gloom amid the marvels of his invention. His face gave no sign of the slow and melancholy thoughts which were passing steadily, processionally, before his concentrated attention. Monty never hurried. He always saw his way clear before taking any step. He had a slow, fatalistic patience which was almost always rewarded.

For weeks now Monty had thought that Patricia Quin was desirable. He had seen her first at his own party in September, and since then upon many occasions. He had looked at her at first, speculating, with the cool observation of a connoisseur. There was much grace, much wilfulness: her movements were delightful, and the play of her light emotions full of singular interest. For a little while Monty had wondered how innocent she really might be; for he appreciated freshness as much as any traditional roué could have done, and he disliked what was callow. His experience of women also made him suspicious of the assumption of purity in such young women as interested him. One of Monty's precepts had been "You cannot shock a woman." It revealed in him a standpoint already fixed.

As he had seen Patricia his interest in her had grown. She amused him by her confidence, her ignorance; she was fresh, and she had spirit. Moreover, when he thought of her, Monty had the air of one grimly smiling. Spirit in a young girl entertained him: it could be played with, and tormented. With its positive effects upon those less sophisticated than himself he had no concern. For Monty it had no positive effects, since he was entirely impervious to the behavior of others where his own determination was engaged. Such a spirit would be amusing to break. Nothing more. Even as he thought that, Monty had an increased stolidity of air. But his interest was not only in her spirit, which was probably the mark of unstable will. Patricia seemed to him in every way delectable. She was unspoilt; she was to be won by flattery; she was to be kept by insolence.

Nevertheless, Monty did not under-rate the address which might be required in winning Patricia. He had dealt previously with young women who were without experience of love. He foresaw that Patricia would be shy as a doe, ready at a single alarming move to fly. She could be flattered, interested, cajoled, by way of her vanity; but not yet was the moment to be ruthless. That, perhaps, was a part of the game. Patricia could be roused, indulged, enjoyed, slowly punished. At least she must be handled with finesse. Monty calculated his finesse.

A point which alarmed him was that his own interest had grown beyond what he had at first imagined that it would be. He had not been, at any time, wholly cold-blooded in his design. That was not the whole of Monty's nature. He had a slow, rising passion; and it was this which determined his actions in all matters of sex. But he had been surprised to find, especially at their last two meetings, that Patricia's innocence, and her virgin coldness, had moved him to an unexpected degree of desire. Only by the greatest self-control had he refrained from alarming her.

Monty appeared to sleep as he sat in his chair in that barbarically-decorated room with the glass roof. A look of heaviness spread across his face. Slowly his head fell back among the cushions. He was intently listening, and his eyes were closed.

Monty had been right. The noise he had heard had been that made by the bell. An instant later the studio door opened and Patricia appeared, demure, even roguish, but pale and, as he immediately saw, in a state of over-strained nerves which signalled caution. She was alarmed by the sense of danger, in no mood of submission, but as timid as a wild bird. So much was clear even from her glance round the empty studio, the involuntary sway of recoil which marked her realisation of its emptiness.

"Hullo!" cried Patricia, in greeting. "Am I the first?"

"You're the most welcome," Monty assured her. "Come and sit down. What a cold hand! Is it so very cold out?"

"Freezing," Patricia assured him. "And it's a horrid journey, you know."

"How stupid of me!" murmured Monty. "Yes, that's very stupid. I'm so sorry. It's unpardonable of me."

"Never mind. It's really quite all right. Who else is coming?" she asked, eagerly. "Not that I need anybody else, of course." The quick addition was a conscious attempt to placate him, the result of an effort to seem more experienced than in fact she was. It did not deceive Monty.

"That's so kind," he answered. "To dinner—nobody. I thought you wouldn't mind just ourselves. But afterwards there are several people—Felix, and ... oh, I forget. Rudge and Cynthia Blent and Mackinnon and Timothy Webster. Several more. But they won't be here till good and late."

Patricia nodded. Monty had not failed to observe her relief. He felt he had been wise in thus departing from his original intention, and preparing an after-dinner party. His letter had suggested another pastime, as they both knew. Neither commented. It might have been, he thought, a trivial piece of policy; in reality, as Monty instantly saw, it had saved the day. He was perfectly well-aware that otherwise Patricia would have been on edge for the evening.

"Very fortunate," he thought definitely. "Something's been happening to her. Look at the eyes, the pupils ... hands.... Drawn lips. Not only fear of me. ... Strange. What can it be? It's Greenlees, I suppose; but what? Is she deeper, or stupidly excitable?"

"Dinner is served, sir," said Jacobs, from the doorway.

"Come along!" Monty caught Patricia's arm with an attempted air of gaiety. It was essential him that he should touch her. At that moment his impulse was savagely to embrace her, to force her body against his own, to hold her to him while he kissed ravenously her neck and cheeks and shoulders.

Patricia started at the touch, and there was a warning degree of resistance in her slightly rigid arm.

"I'm so glad you've got the hangings up again in the studio," she said, with attempted ease as they entered the dining-room thus linked and apart. "They make it like a necromancer's consulting room."