Paddy The Next Best Thing Part 52

"That's his way of saying his aim was either too sure, or too wide, I don't know which," put in Gwen. "Or possibly he got into one of his bear-like moods and no one could put up with him, so they sent him on to us. Have you ever seen Lawrence when he's like a bear with a sore head?" running on. "He's just lovely! I think that's my favourite of all his hundred-and-one moods. Most people are afraid of him, which is silly. If you don't care a fig, and do a little bear-baiting, you can get no end of fun out of it. I wish you would dispose of a few of your moods to Bob, Lawrie. I'm dreadfully afraid he'll turn out hopelessly tame as a husband. Still he can hardly go on worshipping for a whole life-time without a break of some kind. He's bound to turn cranky one day. Won't it be interesting to see the first symptoms! That must be one of the most entertaining parts about getting married, I think--to find out what you each get cranky about, and how you do it."

"I'm afraid you'll keep poor old Bob so busy," said Lawrence, "he'll have no time to indulge in cranks for himself."

"Oh, yes, he will. I like fair play, and I'll see that, he gets his chance. It's only cricket, you know, to let your husband have a good old round-up occasionally, and pretend you're much impressed, and all that."

She dashed off into another subject. "What a delicious hat, Patricia!

Where did you get it? My! what a swell we are to-day. Is it all put on for me, or for Lawrence?--or have you designs on my poor darling Goliath? Doesn't she look charming, Lawrie?"

"Don't be silly, Gwen," a little crossly.

"Quite charming," said Lawrence quietly, and opened the door for them to go down to lunch.

At lunch Gwen plunged into a very sore subject without knowing it.

Paddy was treating Lawrence with polite affability, as if to imply that for the sake of what had happened on the mountain, she would, as a special concession, at any rate not be rude. Lawrence was lackadaisically entertaining, with his old callous air, when Gwen suddenly said:

"Why won't your sister ever come here with you, Paddy? What a funny girl she is. She seldom goes to see Kathleen and Doreen either."

Paddy looked vexed and uncomfortable, but Gwen ran heedlessly on: "Do you know I think she has one of the loveliest faces I've ever seen in my life. I'd like to sit and look at her. Doesn't she like going out?"

Now it was Paddy's most firm and invincible belief, that the reason Eileen had so persistently declined all Owen's friendly overtures and invitations, was from nothing in the world but a dread of meeting Lawrence. Of course she no longer fretted--it was easy to see that; but, judging from her own staunch heart, Paddy argued to herself that though she did not fret, she still remembered, and could not face the pain of a single meeting that could easily be avoided. Consequently a great many delightful gaieties had been sacrificed to the old wound.

And when Paddy called this to mind, her anger with Lawrence's heartlessness received fresh fuel.

As a matter of fact, it was not Eileen's reason at all. When Gwen first showed her unmistakable liking for Paddy, and shortly afterward included both sisters in an invitation, Eileen had made up her mind resolutely to stand aside. She foresaw that were she once to join in their outings, it must inevitably mean fewer invitations for Paddy, as one can always be so much more easily asked than two, and as she was not particularly fond of gaiety, and would as soon remain at home with her mother, she made her decision in the beginning and stood by it, without, however, entering into explanations. Paddy probed her once or twice, and then drew her own conclusions.

"She has never been to see me once," Gwen ran on. "I think it is too bad of her."

She seemed to expect Paddy to say something, so Paddy remarked casually: "She hates leaving mother alone. It has always been the same," and then she shot a sidelong glance at Lawrence. The fact that he was calmly going on with his lunch without the very smallest symptoms of embarra.s.sment, or consciousness, vexed her unreasonably, and she wished with all her heart he had not come. Her polite affability from being genuine took a sarcastic turn that was not lost on Lawrence, but he deviated in no measure from his unperturbed, lackadaisical serenity.

"He hasn't as much heart as a plaster cast," was Paddy's inward comment, which, had she stopped to think of it, showed a distinct lack of discernment in herself, considering what he had endured for her on the mountain.

Very shortly after lunch they were joined by the redoubtable Guardsman, who captivated Paddy at once, with the delightful boyishness that somehow mingled so irresistibly with his splendid proportions, and his almost pathetic devotion to Gwen--who dubbed him alternately, the Babe, or the Giant, or Goliath.

"We're all going for a walk in the park now," she informed her a.s.sembled guests, "and then, perhaps, we'll have tea at the 'Hyde Park Hotel,' and Paddy can go back to her precious bottles."

Paddy could only acquiesce, and of course Gwen and her giant were very quickly steaming ahead, with that expression of blissful satisfaction which is to be seen in the very backs of some amorous couples.

Paddy once more commenced to converse with affable politeness to her somewhat incommunicative companion.

At last her small stock of patience gave out.

"It's your turn now," she said a trifle witheringly. "I've thought of the last half-dozen remarks."

Lawrence gave a low laugh. "I hope you don't want me to think they were any strain," he said.

Of course no self-respecting daughter of an Irish Fusilier could stand that. "I wished to be polite," she retorted, "so I tried to suit my remarks to my company."

"Then I wonder you don't discourse on villains, and ogres, and blood-thirsty monsters, and that sort of thing."

"I am quite sorry I couldn't," with a little snort. "Only inane plat.i.tudes seemed adaptable."

Again Lawrence laughed.

"You're a stunner at repartee, Paddy. I never knew such a fighter in my life. First it was fists, then feet, and now it's tongue."

"I am Irish," with naive simplicity.

"So am I, but it doesn't make me want to lay every one out in about half-an-hour."

"Of course not," scornfully. "You are the sort of Irishman who goes about the world getting your countrymen a bad name. You only shine when you are doing what you ought not."

"Another injustice to Ireland," with mock pathos--adding: "and when you shoot barbed arrows, and fiery glances broadcast, with a reckless indifference to inflicting hurt, you are shining at doing what you ought--is that it?"

"Oh, don't be an idiot!" with impatience. "You make an effort at being polite now, and talk sense."

"But if being polite rests in suiting one's conversation to one's companion?" significantly.

"Then we won't be polite," laughing in spite of herself. "You can be natural and talk drivel, and I'll be warlike." She glanced round the park with a sudden expression, half-longing, and half-humorous--"Heaven!

how I wish we could go ratting!" she said.

But before they parted they had one of their old tussles. Lawrence suddenly taxed her with looking pale and tired: "Are you ill?" he asked.

"Is it that beastly dispensary?"

"I was never so well in my life before," obstinately.

"I know better. You see, I've known you every single bit of your life, so I'm in a position to judge."

"You have not," with flat contradiction. She felt instinctively he was getting lover-like, and felt she must repress him at any cost.

"How have I not? I certainly knew you when you were a month old. I was offered the supreme privilege of carrying you round the garden, but you were so like a black-beetle I funked it."

"There were the three years when you were abroad," with a show of indifference.

"Ah, to be sure, I didn't know you then." He smiled a little--that old whimsical smile. "Had I done so there would probably have been no second trip abroad, and no deadly feud, and Mourne Lodge might have had a second Boadicea rampaging through its stately rooms as mistress."

She quickened her steps. "I must get my 'bus now, or I shall be late.

It is no use attempting to attract the attention of Gwen and her giant."

"You bring me down to earth with such thuds," with a plaintive air. "I dream of stately halls, and modern heroines gracing ancient shrines, and you annihilate both the vision and the poetry in one merciless blow, metaphorically flinging a Shepherd's Bush 'bus at my head. As it is quite out of the question for me to inflict myself upon the lovers, I must take you home in a taxi."

"I am going in a 'bus," willfully. "If you want a cab drive, go to your club," and she turned her steps resolutely toward the road.

"I see you mean to be unmanageable--but I can wait--my time will come.

If I see you getting pale and ill-looking, it will come sooner than you think."

"I don't think at all. I haven't time--at least not to think of you.

My bottles and prescriptions interest me far more."