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 assure 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.