sweet-natured creature. He could never disguise an emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious terror, in order to save her. Mr. Triggs, Gustave, Elton, all were against her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working to fight her pride.
For some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. First she bathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock and powdered her nose.
"Hurry up, Patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to her reflection in the glass. "This is a race with spinsterhood."
Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone.
"Gerrard 60000," she called, conscious that both her voice and her knees were unsteady.
After what seemed an age there came the reply, "Quadrant Hotel."
"Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" she enquired. "Thank you," she added in response to the clerk's promise to enquire.
Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must be out, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. If he were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already started for
"Who is that?" It was Bowen's voice.
Patricia felt she could sing. So he had not gone! Would her knees play her false and cheat her?
"It's—it's me," she said, regardless of grammar.
