Meanwhile, when Paddy saw that Gwen had closed the door after her, she leaned forward with a doubtful expression and appeared about to follow. “Don’t run away,” said Lawrence, “or I shall think you are afraid of me.” “I am not afraid of anyone,” stoutly, still looking toward the door. “No, I know you are not. Still, the others most certainly don’t want us; we should only be in the way.” It was too true. Paddy leaned back and stared into the fire, and that little droop hovered round her lips again. Kathleen was sure to be with her mother, and the others all dispersed. “Not even anyone to go ratting with,” he said, with a tender little smile. The lips twitched and then settled again to the droop, while she tried to reinforce herself for the struggle that loomed ahead. No use to run away now. The time had come for a final understanding, and it must be faced. Lawrence watched her a little while in silence, and there was absolute stillness in the room except for the cheery crackling of the fresh log he had just thrown on the fire. “You look, somehow, as if you were prepared for the worst,” he told her, smiling. “Am I such a terrible ogre?” She did not speak, and he pulled up a chair beside her and sat down, holding his thin white hands out to the blaze. “Do you remember the last time you were in my den?” running on. “It was the night of the girls’ ‘coming-out’ dance—the ultimatum, so to speak, when you declared war. I remember it perfectly—I always shall. You were all in white, Paddy—a fluffy kind of dress that suited you, admirably. I remember being surprised to see how pretty you _could_ look. But, of course, it was your hair—you had always treated it so abominably before. I sometimes think it is the loveliest hair I have ever seen in my life—and I’ve seen a good deal,” with a humorous little shrug. “And then, of course, your eyes are good, and there’s the fascinating mouth.” Paddy could not resist a smile. “When you’ve done going over my points?” “Your points are A1, Patricia,” with admiration in his eyes. “You are a thoroughbred to your finger-tips.” “Well, don’t be personal, or I shall go. You know I don’t like it.” “No, don’t go. I’ll try to be good.” He was silent a moment, and slowly that same air of the previous evening, suggestive of sadness, crept over her face again, and there was a weariness in her attitude as she sat back watching the flames and clasping each arm of the chair with delicate, tapering fingers. “Paddy,” he said simply, “chuck all those foolish doubts and fancies of yours, and give in. I can’t bear to see you looking forlorn.” “I will not: I will never give in.” He squared his shoulders unconsciously, and her fingers gripped the arms of her chair more tightly.