She wondered a little whether she would have the courage to go, supposing the message came in the end. Something in her seemed to have lost confidence. She was the same—yet different. She wanted again to run away, only now she also wanted still more to stay. She read Ted Masterman’s letter again, and told herself he was a man to make any woman happy, and that if she said the word, he would come back at once, whereas Lawrence... The uncertainty made her moody and restless, and her mother and Eileen looked at her a little perplexedly. Eileen asked her about the letter from Ted, but she only said he was prosperous and happy. “Is he coming home?” Eileen suggested, and she answered: “Not that I know of,” in a way that had a final ring. Mrs Blake called one day, and told them Lawrence had made a remarkable recovery, and she was returning to Ireland at once. “Of course his arm will be practically useless for some time,” she said, “but it will not have to come off. So fortunate it was his left, and not his right. I want him to come back with me, but he won’t just at present. He insists he has some business to attend to in town.” She laughed a little. She seemed wonderfully happy about him. Evidently, as ever, the very memory of that black afternoon had been wiped out by his later charm. Paddy thought about it lingeringly. How strong he was when he chose. How he compelled love and forgiveness if it pleased him to do so. Was it possible, she asked again, that he only wanted to break her will, and bend her as he bent all others? The ache grew, and with it a manufactured anger against him. Surely he might have spared her. What did it profit him to make other men seem tame and colourless in her life? It was March before the message came. Eileen’s trousseau was finished and wedding day fixed, and Paddy had a growing dread of what lay ahead. Of course she was to be chief bridesmaid, and all the countryside would be there—and among them, Lawrence. How was she to meet him on that day, after the manner of their parting? See perhaps the mocking light in his eyes, and hear his veiled taunts. But the message dropped like a shaft from the skies, suddenly, unpreparedly, and for the moment dispelled all else. It came in a note from Gwen. “Lawrence is taking motor drives every day now, but hates going alone. He wants you to go to-morrow morning, as I have many engagements. He will call for you at the surgery at half-past eleven. Do be a dear about it. I know you will—and have arranged accordingly.” There was not much sleep for Paddy that night—mostly a troubled, tossing restlessness, and in the morning she looked eagerly at the weather. It was a lovely early spring day, when the little birds were chirping lustily, and the little buds swelling to bursting point.