For one moment Paddy was utterly at a loss, and bit her lips in evident vexation, while the colour deepened still further in her face. “How do you do, Paddy?” said Lawrence. “You seem to be in difficulties as usual. May I introduce you to your other timely helper, Miss Grant-Carew?” Paddy bowed very stiffly, but as Gwen promptly held out her hand, she was obliged to take it. She managed, however, to avoid doing likewise with Lawrence. Gwen pretended not to notice her coldness, and remarked laughingly: “I’m so glad I didn’t miss that. You can’t think how funny it looked—in Regent Street of all places, too?” Paddy was constrained to laugh again at the recollection, but she busied herself trying to rearrange the tomatoes in a secure fashion, and absolutely refused to look at Lawrence. “I think they will be all right now,” she said. “Thank you so much for helping me to pick them up. I’m in rather a hurry, as I have to be at the surgery by half-past five—if you will excuse my running off. Good-by!” and in two seconds she was vanishing in the crowd. Gwen looked at Lawrence drolly. “She’s a good hater,” she remarked. “Gwen isn’t used to being put off in that summary fashion. She doesn’t like it, Lawrie.” “It’s your own fault. You practically pushed me into the introduction.” “Because I wanted to know her. It isn’t often people don’t want to know Gwennie. I don’t understand!—me _ne comprenez pas_, Lawrie. This is going to be interesting,” she ran on. “I shall insist upon Doreen inviting me to meet her in Cadogan Place.” Paddy meanwhile scrambled on to her ’bus, tomatoes held safely this time, and started homeward feeling furious. “How dare he introduce me!” she mused angrily. “He knows I hate her. How dare he stop me at all in that cool fashion!” calmly ignoring the fact that the tomatoes and her own carelessness, not Lawrence, had done the stopping. “How pretty she is!” she went on in the same angry way. “She’s as pretty as Eileen. I wouldn’t have cared so much if she had been plain, I think, but she’s just lovely. Oh, I hate her, I hate her—I just hate them both!” The bottles got rather banged about that evening, and the good doctor looked up once or twice from his writing, in his little inner sanctuary, and gently marvelled. Basil happened to be at home, and strolled into his father’s den, though only with the idea of strolling out again through the surgery door upon suitable pretext. While hovering round there was a sudden crash, which made the doctor start somewhat violently. Basil looked amused. “Rather stormy this evening, eh?” he suggested. “Perhaps I’d better go and help to pick up the pieces,” and he strolled out at the other door. “Is it blowing great guns and glass bottles, to-night?” he asked of Paddy, showing himself somewhat gingerly. Paddy vouchsafed no reply. “I understand it rained tomatoes in Regent Street this afternoon,” he went on, nothing daunted. She could not forbear to smile. “Who told you so?”