“You needn’t say it as if I were your grandfather. I’m only thirty-five, and what are you? Let me see, Doreen is twenty-five, and you are eighteen months younger, therefore you must be either twenty-three or twenty-four. Time you were growing wiser, Paddy, and suiting yourself to your world, and its exigencies.” “I suppose you mean _your_ world!” “Mine and yours. It’s got to come some day, Patricia. Why not now?” She shut her lips more tightly, and pretended to be buried in her paper. “You can’t possibly know what you are reading about. Put the paper down and talk for a little. You will only damage your eyesight.” Still no answer. He ventured further. “Do you remember the last time we were alone in a small space between four walls at this hour!” She put the paper down suddenly, and looked straight into his eyes. “You are not playing fair,” she said. He sat up quickly, and drew his hand across his face, and then said quite simply: “You are right. I apologise.” Paddy was instantly mollified, and he saw it, and took the opportunity to get up and rearrange her rug. “It is all right,” she urged, but he only smiled, and persisted in tucking her up more cozily. Once again Paddy had that fleeting sense of the satisfaction of masculine protection, and looked a little wistfully down at her book. “If I promise to play fair, will you talk?” he asked. “It is so tiring to read.” She could not but agree with him, and they spent the rest of the journey talking about Lawrence’s travels, and the wonders of far-off lands. When he would take the trouble he was a delightful conversationalist, and Paddy gave an exclamation of astonishment when she found they were nearing Holyhead. Lawrence smiled inwardly, but was far too clever to mar his momentary triumph by seeming to notice it, and they remained good friends until the train steamed into Omeath station. Paddy, of course, was hanging out of the window, watching for each familiar landmark, but when the train drew up, she uttered an exclamation of such boundless amazement, incredulity, and delight mingled, that Lawrence was quite startled. Coming running down the platform was Jack O’Hara. CHAPTER XL A Budget of News. Paddy was out on the platform in half a twinkling, and with a little cry of “Jack!” darted to meet him with hands outstretched. Jack caught hold of both, and shook them until she was quite exhausted, and cried for mercy. Lawrence stood looking on, and his brow grew black as thunder. If Jack had only known it, in that one minute he had practically all the revenge he need wish, for any fancied contempt in the past. “Can I give you a lift?” Lawrence said, when they would listen. “My motor is here. How do, O’Hara! You look as if South America suited you.” “It did A1,” answered Jack, not even noticing Lawrence’s ill-concealed anger—as indeed he had small occasion to. “What shall we do, Paddy, walk or drive?”