"I am very—er—worried about you, my dear," began Mrs. Hamilton hesitatingly. "You are looking so pale and tired and worn. I—I fear you have something on your mind and—and" she broke off, words failing her.
"It's the summer," replied Patricia, smiling. "I always find the hot weather trying, more trying even than Mr. Bolton's jokes," she smiled.
"Are you—are you sure it's nothing else?" said Mrs. Hamilton.
"Quite sure," said Patricia. "What else should it be?" She was conscious of her reddening cheeks.
"You ought to go out more," said Mrs. Hamilton gently. "After sitting indoors all day you want fresh air and exercise."
And with that Mrs. Hamilton had to rest content.
Patricia could not explain the absurd feeling she experienced that she might miss something if she left the house. It was all so vague, so intangible. All she was conscious of was some hidden force that seemed to bind her to the house, or, when by an effort of will she broke from its influence, seemed to draw her back again. She could not analyse the feeling, she was only conscious of its existence.
From Miss Brent she had received a characteristic reply to her letter.
