One of the first things Paddy did when she got to London was to quarrel with her cousin, Basil Adair. Basil was a medical student, a young man who had somehow got a notion that the world would be in no end of a queer fix without him; but that, as long as he remained in it, he had no occasion to work or strive after anything except having a good time, spending a great deal of money and talking big. He was rather curious about this new cousin who was coming to stay a few weeks with them, and inclined to be pleased at the idea of some one quite fresh to impress daily with his new clothes, immaculate boots, glossy head-gear, and generally magnificent appearance. When he saw a black-robed, sallow-faced girl, with serious eyes and badly dressed hair, he was inclined to be satirical. Paddy’s mourning, hastily procured in Newry, did not meet with his approval at all, as indeed it was hardly likely to do, and black was the most unbecoming colour she could possibly wear. Still, he had a great idea of always doing the correct thing, so he came home to dinner the flint evening, and addressed various polite remarks to her, in a grandiloquent, not to say condescending, tone. Paddy looked at him as if he were a clothes-horse, and Basil was not pleased. Half divining the same, Paddy looked again. After dinner, when she had the opportunity of a nearer inspection, she looked with interest at the immaculate patent-leather boots, and took a calm survey of the whole effect. Basil felt he was making an impression, and though he thought she was very plain and dowdy, he was a young man who could not have resisted trying to make an impression on a crossing sweeper. He took up his stand on the hearthrug, with his legs astride and his hands behind him, and looked down at her over his two-and-a-half-inch collar, prepared to continue his magnanimity. “Er—you don’t know London, I believe—er—Miss Adair?” he began. “I have been here before,” Paddy answered. “I was at school here for about four months.” “It is unfortunate,” he continued, “that father’s practice happens to be—er—in Shepherd’s Bush, and that, therefore, you should have to become acquainted with London from such a—er—plebeian locality.” “I don’t see that it matters where you are, if you’ve got to be in London,” said Paddy more bluntly than grammatically. “But London is a glorious place,” he cried. “To be in London is life, to be out of it is death. London is—er—the centre of the world. The centre of learning, and commerce, and—er—art, and—er—progress.” “Don’t they say the same about Paris, and Berlin, and New York, and lots of other places?” she asked calmly. “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.