viii

After the dinner was finished, they went back to the studio for coffee; but the picture of the East was forgotten, and to both of them it was the moment alone that was the secret preoccupation. Patricia sat upon a low seat near the fire, and smoked a cigarette; and they spoke of other things without conviction, and without more than a pretence of interest or intimacy. And when Monty would again have engaged her with pictures of travel she was steadfast in refusal to yield herself. There was a chasm between them. He could see that she had taken fright. He was once more adroitly soothing—talked of the furnishings of his studio, and, indicating each, said how he had acquired it, and with what pure cunning—talked not very light-hearted nonsense about the people who were coming later in the evening—talked of pictures and music, of mountains and lakes and seas—everything to reassure her and restore her ease. But all the time Patricia could remember that glow in his eyes to which she had awakened at the table; and she shrank back, uncontrollably, filled with vehement dread, shocked with the sense of these impenetrable hangings, the dreadful silence beyond the closed door.

And Monty could not continue to control himself with the same coolness. With every effort to maintain the earlier calm, he was driven by urgent necessity to approach her more nearly. Still he did not touch her; but his manifestly exercised restraint was betrayed in every tone. The colours of those barbaric curtains and chairs began for Patricia to merge and swim together. And Monty was no longer a man; he became some diabolical and terrifying figure, dark, sinister, grotesque. She was afraid—not now of herself, as she had been, but solely of him. She was cooler now, but watchful, still half-fascinated, but as one on edge in face of danger. Monty was laughing and speaking of the dancing which they had amusedly noticed at their last visit to Topping's; of Jacky Dean; of the crowd; of other clubs. He imitated Jacky's devoted, colourless style, which moved him to great mirth, prolonged until it began to jar. And at last he said:

"Have you seen the new steps? Look...." As he spoke, he began dancing alone in the middle of the brilliant studio, a black figure of grace, his head turned from her so that she should not see the colour of his cheeks and the ferocity of his eyes; while Patricia watched the movement of his feet and the poise of his body. "See? Ta-ta-tum-ta.... Two steps ... it's a variation of the Tango, of course, very much simplified; but it's rather deceptive. Try it...."

He approached her, his hands outstretched. With a heart of water, Patricia rose, half-protesting. Their hands met, their heads were level. And as Monty held her so he increased and strengthened his hold until with suddenly uncontrollable passion he was savagely pressing her to him and with fury advancing his face so that he might command her lips. His whole body was rigid. The muscles of his arms were like iron to her tender flesh. Patricia did not scream. She could not have done so. Both were desperately silent except for their heavy breathing. She withdrew her head to the greatest distance that Monty's cruel hold allowed, until she was suffocating. One hand was tightly pressed to Monty's side between his body and her own, and was useless. The other remained. With all her hysterical strength she used it to push away that dark, insistent face. Patricia's strength at the moment of stress was so abnormal that, suddenly exerted so very little more, it might have been sufficient to dislocate his neck. It was for an instant only. They were struggling no more. Monty released her, and they drew apart, panting. Red marks were beneath Monty's chin. Patricia felt bruised, as she might have done if she had been severely beaten with a stick. She was shuddering.

"I'm sorry, Patricia," Monty said, harshly. "I beg your pardon. It was too much for me." The two of them turned away from each other, Monty breathing rapidly, Patricia still almost stifled. "Did I hurt you? Poor child! I was brutal. I'm sorry...."

With her heart seeming to beat in her throat, Patricia nodded slowly.

"My fault," she said, indistinctly. "I ought...."

Both, if it had not been for breathlessness and dishevelment, were treating the situation with strange coolness, as if all heat had evaporated from it. Patricia had no fear. She knew that the embrace could not be repeated. It was as though the fire which had burned in Monty had been extinguished. He stood before her, recovering his normal address, the heaviness gone from his face, and the fury from his eyes. Already he was slipping back into that slow thick courtesy of manner which had been so attractive. Quite soon he would be debonair, perfectly at ease. And she herself, incapable of thought, and in a state of physical agitation though she was, became apparently composed. But even as Patricia felt this, she was overcome by deadly sickness. Her pallor was increased. She groped her way to the fireplace, resting her head against the cool mantelpiece in an effort to recover. And as she stood thus, only half-conscious, there came a sound which made Monty start. He gave an exclamation, and turned quickly. At first his hands went to his neck, instinctively to the spot where he might bear marks of the struggle. Then, from a sharp glance, with similar intent, at Patricia, he discovered her fainting condition.

"Good God, you're ill!" he cried. "That's the bell. They'll be coming now. Drink this. For God's sake don't let them see...."

As he spoke he moved quickly across the studio to a cupboard, from which he produced and brought to her side a decanter and glass. Again Patricia nodded, taking the glass from his hand, and sitting once more upon her low chair, and drinking the brandy. It made her cough. In the midst of her coughing the studio door opened and a merry group of newcomers, all peeping and laughing, appeared without.

They gave universal shouts of greeting, and proclaimed envy of anybody caught with a brandy-glass in her hand, and made general uproar. And in doing so the crowd pushed its way into the studio and its members scattered.

"Hul-lo!" they jovially cried. "Caught you, Patricia! Leading an inebriate's life, I see.... Greedy! Oh!"

Patricia, laughing, waved the glass in acknowledgment; but it was poor laughter, and was fortunately unheard amid the louder noises of the careless people who had brought their own gaiety.