It would be difficult to say when the awakening first came to Lawrence.

Before it came he felt it growing every day. After it came, it seemed to have been there all along. At first he blinded himself with the belief that he was only piqued. That it would on the whole be entertaining to break down her defences and subdue her. He was grateful to her for giving him even that much new interest in life.

Afterward he faced the situation with entire honesty. He admitted frankly to himself that he loved her, and he knew, without going any further, that it was the love of his life. All the past peccadilloes, entanglements, fancies, were nothing--were mere episodes--nothing seemed real any longer except that he loved Paddy Adair. He, the graceful _dilettante_, the highly eligible society man, the casual, cynical scholar--she, the harum-scarum tom-boy, the fearless Irish romp--"Paddy-the-next-best-thing."

When the awakening had come, and he faced the facts squarely, he believed he had loved her ever since the night of the Omeath dance, when, in his den, she had flung defiance at him, and marched off with her head in the air, in lofty disdain.

He reviewed what had transpired between them since, and; his thoughts were gloomy enough. Most emphatically the defiance and the disdain were still the dominant notes she was at no further pains now, than then, to hide her contempt. He knew that since the night of Gwen's dance she had resorted to strategy to avoid him. Since his mother and Kathleen returned home there had been much sight-seeing and entertaining, and Paddy was continually requisitioned. Yet she contrived to turn up on the occasions when he had another engagement, and remain absent when he made a victim of himself for the express purpose of seeing her. Even at a second dance she had outwitted him.

"Lawrence will take you home," Doreen had said in his presence, and Paddy had politely replied: "Thank you." Yet when he sought her neat the end of the evening, it was to find she had already gone--undoubtedly missing two dances rather than accept his escort.

The third time, however, he was one too many for her. He watched from a safe vantage ground until he saw her give a quiet glance round, and then surrept.i.tiously slip away. Instantly he accosted Doreen.

"It is raining in torrents," he told her, "and I don't want the horses to wait to-night. I shall go home now, and send a taxi for you and Kathleen at one o'clock."

Doreen thought it a little odd, but was immediately claimed by a partner, and Lawrence gave her no time to reply.

When Paddy slipped cautiously out of the cloak-room and made for the door, she stopped short before a coated figure unmistakably waiting for her, and said: "Oh!"

"I'm going to take you home in the carriage," said Lawrence, with a resolution against which she felt powerless. "I've arranged with the others to be fetched in a taxi."

Paddy flashed defiance at him, bit her teeth together, and descended the steps with the air of an outraged princess. Lawrence reflected that it was a long way to Shepherd's Bush, and smiled grimly to himself--partly at the feelings of his coachman, and partly at the success of his ruse.

So they bowled along in a comfortable brougham, though Paddy disdained the padded cushions, and sat bolt upright like a terrier on guard.

Lawrence sat back in his corner and watched her, feeling for the moment almost content. It was something, at least, to have captured her for a few minutes and have her all to himself. Her skirts brushed against his foot, her flowers exhaled a delicate perfume in the carriage, her cloak, falling open, slipped back a little on to his knee. Lawrence had reached the stage when a man is thankful for very small mercies, and he was vaguely thankful for these.

"Am I permitted to express an old friend's congratulations on your appearance?" he asked presently, in a voice that held no mockery.

"When I am with you I seem to do nothing but repeat myself," was the crushing reply. "How often am I to tell you that what you do, say, or think, is not of the smallest consequence to me."

"You could not please me better than by repeating yourself," a little whimsically. She stared in front of her.

"Can any one come to your surgery for medicine?" presently. "If I came with an ill, would you try to administer healing to me?"

"I should try to administer a rebuff that would prevent your ever coming again."

He smiled a little. "You couldn't hit harder than you have; and yet I still come."

"That is your colossal obstinacy. Nothing in your life has ever attracted you except the unattainable. I understand perfectly, that because I happen to have the hardihood to withstand your overtures, and the originality," with finely toned satire, "to prefer your room to your company, it amuses you to thrust your attentions upon me, just to see how soon I shall give in and bow down with the rest. You may save yourself the trouble. I shall never give in. It is only because of your mother and sisters that I a.s.sume any degree of friendliness whatever."

"And what if I say I will never give in either? I am a strong man, Paddy, when I make up my mind about anything."

"You are nothing of the kind. You are a coward, or you would not persist in taking unfair advantages of me."

He flushed, but refused to get angry.

"I have taken no unfair advantage to-night. Only yesterday you accepted my escort before Doreen."

"Only because I was cornered, and you knew it."

He was silent for a s.p.a.ce, then returned to the charge.

"Why won't you cry a truce, Paddy?" and his voice was strangely winsome.

"No one is hurt now, and you cannot choose but feel in your heart that it was a good thing I went away in time."

To any one less unsophisticated than Paddy, less direct in all her thoughts and actions, less fearlessly independent, such a tone of voice must have been dangerously alluring--coming, moreover, from such as he, with all his advantages, to such as she with all her losses. But Paddy was a soldier to the backbone. Having thrown down the glove and entered the combat, she would give and take no quarter. Personal gain was nothing--personal loss still less--Lawrence was the enemy--the enemy she had declared war against, and until the conduct that had so infuriated her was amply atoned for, she would not only stick to her guns, but was of the stuff to die uselessly beside them for a lost cause. She was her father over again at the sternest moments of his brilliant career. No parleying with the enemy--War. The old charm for once fell on heedless ears. She continued to look rigidly out into the night, with her face averted, and did not even condescend to reply.

She was thinking with no small satisfaction that he would no doubt soon be leaving London for a long time. Already arrangements were in progress for Mrs Blake and the girls to go to Mourne Lodge, and it was not in the least likely that Lawrence would accompany them. At any time he had only gone under protest, and that very evening Doreen had expressed curiosity as to where he would go when they departed. The thought that she would probably not see him again for months after to-night, further gladdened and fortified her.

When he spoke again she was ready for him.

"Well?" he asked, in that most beguiling of voices. "Is it to be a truce, Paddy--for the sake of the old days!"

She stared straight before her.

"It is only when the old days cease to exist there can be a truce between you and me," in measured tones. "On account of the old days, and because they will live to our last gasp, I shall never again be your friend."

Then a surprising thing happened--a thing that took her breath away, and left her speechless. Suddenly, from leaning back in his corner, he started up, and bent forward, and seized both her hands in his in a grip of iron.

"I don't want you to be my friend!" he exclaimed, almost roughly. "Good G.o.d! as if I should put myself out, and go to the lengths I have, just to gain a friend!" He gave a little harsh laugh. "A friend, indeed!-- no, I don't want your friendship, listen, Paddy--" the hands gripping hers tightened, and she saw in the dim light that he was very white, and his eyes gleamed strangely, and masterful resolve filled his face. "It is a _wife_ I want--not a friend--and a _wife_ I mean to have. This feud is nonsense. It is mere obstinacy now. If I behaved wrongly to Eileen I am sorry. I can't say any more, and you can see for yourself it was a good thing we never got engaged. Are you going to let an ancient thing like that come between us--punish two people for a third one who is unhurt? I say 'two,' because I know I could make you happy, if you would drop this--this--prejudice, and be your old self again."

While he was speaking Paddy herself turned very pale and for a moment there was a bewildered expression in her eyes, as she continued to gaze fixedly before her. Then once again she rallied her forces for a final blow. She wrenched her hands from his and faced him squarely.

"You must be mad!" she said. "You can't know what you are talking about. How many times am I to tell you that I hate you?--Listen! hate you--_hate_ you. I do not know what you mean by a prejudice. I know that you dared to trifle with one of my house--I know that you nearly broke my sister's heart--I know that you are heartless, and cruel, and selfish--and then you talk to me of love and marriage,"--she paused for very indignation.

"Yes, I do," he interrupted decisively, "and I shall again, in spite of your kind summing up."

"Then thank goodness you are going away, and, at least, we shall not meet any more for a long time!"

"Who told you I was going away!"

"Don't you always go away in the summer?--and besides the others are leaving for Mourne Lodge directly."

"And what if they are?"

"You must go somewhere."

"Certainly. I am going to Mourne Lodge with them."

Paddy was momentarily staggered, then she peered out of the window at the street. "We are just arriving," she said, "I can let myself in.

You need not get out in the rain."

He only gave a low laugh, and took the latchkey out of her hand.

As he opened the door, he looked once more hard into her eyes:

"Good-night, Patricia the Great. We shall meet again at Omeath."

Paddy went upstairs feeling a little dazed, and then commenced throwing things about to relieve her feelings.