"If they do, it is a lie. London stands at the top of the pyramid built by the cities of the world."

"Well, anyhow, I'd sooner have Omeath," said Paddy.

"It is heresy," he cried, "rank heresy--and you an Englishwoman."

"Irish," corrected Paddy, very decidedly.

"Ah, yes, to be sure! And I suppose you're--er--very proud of it.

Funny thing how the Irish fancy their nationality."

"Not half so funny as some of the things you fancy yourselves for over in England," she retorted, getting a little exasperated.

Basil glanced down over his collar rather as if he were taking stock of a curious kind of animal, and Paddy began to fidget. She was becoming more and more conscious of a desperate impulse to ruffle his hair, and tumble his collar, and disarrange generally this painfully well-dressed young man, with his air of extreme condescension.

"Ah!" he said satirically, "you cultivate the art of repartee in Ireland--as well as potatoes."

"We cultivate men, too," with scorn. "You ought to go over there and finish your education."

This rather took his breath away for a minute, and while he was recovering Paddy's mood changed.

"That was rude," she said. "I'm sorry."

This surprised him still more, and he mentally designated her the oddest fish he had come across.

"Oh, don't mention it," he replied with a paternal air. "I like people who say what they think." There was a pause, then he asked: "I suppose you are fond of theatres?"

"I have never been to one."

"Never been to a theatre!" he gasped. "Impossible! Why you haven't done anything!"

Paddy leaned forward suddenly. "Have you ever shot a snipe?" she said.

"No," wonderingly.

"Well, I have," and she closed her lips with an expressive snap, and there was a slight pause.

"You're a--er--sportswoman then?" at last.

"I don't shoot my bird sitting, if that's what you mean."

Basil had no mind to reveal his ignorance upon sport generally, so he tried another tack, asking: "I suppose you have read all the new novels."

"I have ready scarcely anything, except 'The Jungle Tales,' 'A Voyage in the Cachalot,' and the Bible. I never had time to read."

"Never had time!" he echoed. "I thought people who lived in the country had no other way to kill time."

Paddy did not reply, so he asked, "What did you do beside shoot, then!"

"Oh, I could sail a bit, and fish a bit, and climb a bit. Then there was the hockey club, and tennis club, and golf club. The days weren't as a rule half long enough."

Basil looked down with some show of interest.

"You'll rather miss all that in London," he suggested.

"I guess so," was Paddy's short, laconic response, and she fixed her eyes on the fire.

"Still, there'll be lots of other things," he went on. "Dances, and theatres, and--er--shops. The guv'nor's awfully easy-going, you know-- you won't have to do much work."

"Do you mean Uncle Frank?" raising her eyebrows a little.

"Yes, of course. Why?"

Paddy did not answer, and just then her aunt come back.

"Basil, my dear," said his mother anxiously, "I don't like to think you are working so hard. I'm sure you're not strong enough. Last night it was quite one o'clock when I heard you moving about overhead."

"Oh, that won't hurt me," carelessly, "and it's so much easier to read at night."

Paddy looked at him keenly.

"But, my dear boy, you must remember your health," continued his mother fondly. "You must not let your zeal make you rash."

Paddy grew meditative. She had distinct recollections of her uncle saying Basil could not get through his exams, and implying that he did not work. Her aunt turned to her.

"You know the medical profession is such a hard one to get on in, my dear," she said, "and Basil has to be nearly always working. I a.s.sure you it is a most unusual thing for him to spend an evening in the drawing-room like this. He nearly always goes to the hospital, or works at a friend's rooms. It is entirely for your sake, my dear, and I was very glad when I heard him say he could manage it."

Paddy murmured something about being honoured, and a little later asked if she might be excused and go to bed, as she was very tired.

Basil had something of a shock. It was incredible for any girl to want to go to bed at nine o'clock when he was there. When Paddy actually stood up and prepared to go, he concluded she had a headache and could not bear the light. As a matter of fact poor Paddy was momentarily getting nearer breaking down altogether, and the instant her aunt closed the door and left her alone, she went down on her knees by the bedside and burst into tears.

It had been such a terrible day--she thought she would never forget it as long as she lived.

She and Jack had breakfasted together at Holyhead, where they remained until morning, and then he had seen her safely into the train to London.

There had been tears in his sunny eyes, and Paddy had felt awful, but it had to be borne, and now he was on the sea sailing away--away from England and all of them. It did, indeed, seem as if all the hard things possible had come upon them at once, and when she at last slipped into bed, she cried herself to sleep.

The next day she went with her uncle to see about her dispensing and was fortunately able to start working at once, which left her less time to think.

Nevertheless, often across her studies would steal the memory of the mountains and loch. In fancy she would smell the heather or the peat, hear the curlews calling or the cry of the plover, the lapping of the little waves against the keel of the boat, or their light murmuring on the shingle; she would wonder what the aunties were doing, and how the hockey club was getting on with its new captain, and whether they all thought of her sometimes and missed her! One big tear would gather and then another, and she would dash them angrily away, fighting day by day with steady persistence the pa.s.sionate longing, the sometimes pa.s.sionate determination, to throw everything to the winds and go back and live on crusts, if need be, beside her beloved lake. Sometimes these fits left her very sore and irritable, and it was in such a mood she had her first real quarrel with Basil, about three weeks after her arrival. She hardly knew what it was all about, neither did he, but he started holding forth in his usual high fashion upon London and Londoners being the salt of the earth, with certain vague innuendoes about well-cut, tailor-made dresses and a smart style, until Paddy grew exasperated beyond endurance, and informed him, none too politely, that he was only fitted to stand in tailor's window, as a model of an empty-headed, well-dressed, curled and pampered modern young man, with about as much real manhood in him as a wax doll.

Having delivered herself of this somewhat pointed speech, in a highly impressive fashion, she flung out of the room and slammed the door behind her in a way that shook the jerry-built Shepherd's Bush villa to its very foundation. It shook his lordship, Basil Adair, gasping into a large arm-chair with open mouth and eyes, for the onslaught had very literally taken his breath away.

"By Jove," he breathed, "I hope the roof's securely fastened on. What in the name of fortune did the guv'nor bring this whirlwind--this tornado--this positive monsoon--into a suburban villa for?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

PADDY HAS A VISITOR.

When Paddy was alone in her room her anger quickly evaporated, and was as quickly replaced by an overpowering sense of loneliness. Why, oh why, had they let her come to London alone? Why had Fate dealt her this double blow! "Daddy, daddy," she breathed piteously, and buried her face in her hands. For a moment she longed to be away there in the quiet churchyard beside him. It seemed to her quite impossible that life would ever be glad again, since he was gone, and Jack was gone, and strangers were probably already moving into The Ghan House.