i

Patricia arrived at the Maynes' house a moment early. She had walked from her rooms through one of the streets to the north of the King's Road, and in spite of her new boredom, which made her a little shrink from the prospect of an evening with uncongenial people, she was aware of curiosity at sight of the house. It was one of those tall featureless houses which lie in respectable avenues in Kensington, stained by a kind of grim insipidity and separated from the road by an iron railing, a grass plot, and an immense flight of stone steps. The portals were massively columnar, and the windows bay. There was nothing to make the Maynes' house different from those upon each side of it excepting the number and the fact that the iron gate did not groan as it was opened. From without, the house was what Patricia expected.

Indoors it was distinct. There was no smell of cooking; the walls were papered in a blue-gray, the staircase was fresh and clean with blue-grey paint, and a carpet of the same colour in a rather darker shade extended as far as she could see. Her mind instantly received the impression: "Liberty!" The maid was young, pretty, smiling, and curious. And as Patricia went forward into the room into which she was informally shown Edgar himself was there, with a plump old lady and a pretty young woman and a surreptitiously barking immature cocker spaniel all close behind him. Patricia received a shock. This was a home, the first home she had been in for years. These were kind people. Her heart was opened to them. She was a child at once, eager that they should like her and be her friends. How strange it was, when she had dreaded something alarming and something boring. She was hardly conscious that they looked at her with keen eyes and brains, so definitely did she feel herself greeted by warm hearts. She was for an instant deeply moved.

"My mother, Claudia, Pulcinella ..." said Edgar, with a minimum of awkwardness.

There were two warm hand-clasps, and a glance, ever so rapid, at Claudia; and Patricia saw the little dog's tail twisting, and stooped to pat the glossy body which was being shyly insinuated into her notice by its agreeable owner. In the firelight and gaslight there was cheerfulness, but there was peace also, and it was the tranquillity—the homely quality of peace—that Patricia first noticed. She saw it for a moment only; and then Claudia led the way up to a bedroom in which she could remove her cloak and hat, and smooth her hair, and if necessary, powder her face before dinner. But Patricia had no need to powder her face, and so the two girls had no opportunity for any prolonged mutual scrutiny by means of the mirror. They were shy of each other, and hardly spoke together until their return to the drawing-room. It was then that Patricia, sitting down, first properly glimpsed the Mayne household, which by now had been brought to full strength by the arrival of old Mr. Mayne and a sedate cat whose name was Percy.

Mr. Mayne was a man of over sixty, small and thin, with a fierce aspect and a ridiculously mild voice. He had a moustache and beard resembling the pictures Patricia had seen of pirates. His eyes were commanding. Only his voice was inappropriate. It was a clear deep voice, but it lacked volume; and in face of such a terrifying presence it came as the bleat of the kid from the mouth of the jaguar. His wife was equally gentle, but she looked placid, and in Mrs. Mayne there were no sharp contrasts. She was round, plump, and cheerful, the sort of a woman upon whose lap a ball of wool refuses to stay, especially when there is a little dog at hand. Very different from these were the two children. For Edgar Patricia was conscious of an increasing sense of respect. She now saw that his quietness had its quality and interest. His rather grave face, with its general air of brownness, was not one which attracted her; but he looked well-built, and her friendliness towards him would have been perfect if she had not felt one very singular thing about Edgar. It was that he went his own way. With great considerateness of others, she was sure, but quite inhumanly, he went his own way. Patricia felt that if he decided to do a thing an effort beyond her own power would be needed to turn him from his object. She had made up her mind that he was not subject to human weaknesses, and she resented the aloofness created by this freedom.

Claudia was different again, but not equally disconcerting. She was tall, and noticeably pretty, with a very occasional immaturity of gesture which indicated her youthfulness. Dark, and a little like her brother, she had a gaiety of demeanour and a sparkling air of enthusiasm which his temperament forbade. To Patricia there was something irresistibly charming and wise about Claudia. That she also went her own way, if such was the case, caused in Claudia's case no barrier between them. It was natural and right that Claudia, being a modern young woman, should go her own way. Patricia went her own way. She thought of Claudia: "She's prettier than I am, but her figure isn't as good. Nor's her taste. She doesn't dress as well as I do. She's very clever and kind and nice. I like her. Of course, not as clever or as nice as I am. But then I'm...."

It was extremely pleasant to be in a comfortable home which really was a home, and to be in the company of such born friends as the Maynes. Patricia sighed with content.