Paddy-The-Next-Best-Thing. Gertrude Page
a call some miles distant, chatting pleasantly all the way; and at dinner, he condescended to discuss various matters connected with the dance, instead of preserving his customary silence.
Then he went into his den for a smoke, and so preoccupied was he for a few moments that he did not notice a large, flat piece of pasteboard lying on the table, which had evidently arrived by the evening post. Instead, he glanced with a casual air of appreciation round his beloved bachelor domain, wondering, half-unconsciously, if perhaps the time were coming for him to settle down and give up his wanderings.
His eye roved dreamily over his fine collection of foreign swords, picked up in all quarters of the globe, and many other strange weapons of warfare, arranged fantastically upon the walls—his sporting prints, worth large sums of money as originals—his guns and riding stocks—his trophies of big game shooting.
Lastly, his books, of which he had also a fine collection, though it could not altogether be said to be a credit to his taste; and his prints and photographs strewn in all directions.
“I wonder what Eileen would think of them?” was the involuntary thought in his mind, and his thin lips parted in a slight smile.
Then he caught sight of the carefully tied pasteboard, and stepping forward picked it up with a curious expression.
“By Jove!—Queenie,” he muttered, seeing the writing, and proceeded to cut the string.
Then he drew from its wrappers the full-length portrait of a beautiful girl in fancy dress.
For a long time he stood perfectly still looking at it, then he held it at arm’s length, trying it in different lights, and surveying it with keenly criticising eyes.
“Superb,” was his final verdict, muttered under his breath; then he leaned it up against another photograph in the place of honour on his writing desk, and turned his attention to a little scented note that had accompanied it. A printed slip of newspaper was enclosed in the letter, but first he read, in a bold, girlish handwriting:
“Dear Old Lawrie—
“Read the enclosed slip and bow down—even your cynical old head owes homage to such a paragon, and foreseeing my victory, in gracious acceptance of the same homage, I send you the latest portrait of this Queen of Beauty.
“When shall we prepare your den for you, and duly banish your favourite enemies? You said you would come again in the autumn—and consequently Calcutta waits.
“Earl Selloyd haunts our door-step, and mamma has a fancy for a peer as son-in-law. Comprenez?
“Queenie.”
On the slip of newspaper he read:
“At the fancy dress ball last night, given in honour of Lord Kitchener, one of the most striking among the younger women was the beautiful Miss Gwendoline Grant-Carew, only daughter of the Hon. and Mrs. Jack Grant-Carew. She is undoubtedly one of the reigning queens of English beauty, and as charming and vivacious as she is fair to look upon.”
Holding the letter in his hand, Lawrence again gazed critically at the portrait on his desk, and the suggestion of a pleased expression dawned on his face.
“So Selloyd’s trying to get in the running there, is he?” he mused. “Beastly cad! I owe him one or two since our college days. It will be almost as good sport as tiger shooting to spoil his game for him. I think I’ll start for India next month.”
Then he put the little note carefully into his pocket-book, and, lighting a cigar, sank into a deep arm-chair and stared into the fire, dreaming of Gwendoline Grant-Carew.
Chapter Eleven.
The Scrimmage Party.
Yet the very next morning he was again at Eileen’s side, again looking that unspoken homage into her eyes.
It was the occasion of what was generally known as a Scrimmage Party at The Ghan House, to which he has been inveigled partly on false pretences.
“Are you coming to my birthday party?” Paddy had shouted to him as he was riding past in the morning, from the top of a hen-house where she was busily endeavouring to mend leakages in the roof.
He reined in his horse, and came as near as he could get.
“What in the name of fortune are you doing up there?”
“I’m fixing on a few odd slates to keep out the rain. Don’t you admire my handiwork?”
“Why don’t you let your man do it? Lord!” with amusement, “I never saw such a position.”
Paddy glanced at her somewhat generous display of ankle, and her feet trying to hang on to the roof.
“To tell you the honest truth, Jack was supposed to be going to do it, while I handed up the slates, but we quarrelled.”
“You seem to enjoy quarrelling with your friends beyond anything. I wonder you have any left.”
Now that he had come near, he was in no violent hurry to go on, for Paddy, perched on her hen-house roof, had a roguish, dare-devil look that was distinctly alluring.
“Oh! they come round again,” airily. “It would often be more fun if they didn’t. That’s why I like quarrelling with you. Your thunder-clouds last longer.”
“Then in future I shall suppress them altogether.”
“Not you. You wouldn’t know yourself amiable too long.”
“Am I so very bad-tempered?”
Paddy glanced up from her work.
“You’re the most detestable person I know, as a rule,” she informed him.
Lawrence could not help laughing, though she was evidently quite serious.
“I suppose the few intervals when I bask in the sunlight of your favour, are when I buy pigs to oblige you, and that kind of thing! I shouldn’t have taken you for a time-server, Paddy—only liking people for what you can get out of them.”
“Daddy was ill over the pigs,” she remarked, ignoring his thrust. “I told him while we were at tea, and he choked, and got dreadfully ill, because every time he was just calming down, he remembered about Dan’el on the floor, or about you having to buy my fifteen. I daren’t even mention such a thing as a pig in his hearing now. He isn’t strong enough for it. You see he hadn’t quite got over my charging into you when I was after that rat, and then making you carry the little beast of a ferret and join in,” and her eyes shone bewitchingly.
“If you think I’m detestable, what do you suppose I think of you?” he asked.
“Oh, no one thinks at all when it’s me,” with a funny little pursing up of her lips, and a sweeping disregard of grammar. “You see, I can’t be judged after any ordinary standard, as I’m not ordinary. I’m not a girl, and I’m not a boy—I’m Paddy—‘Paddy-the-next-best-thing.’ ”
He laughed again. “Oh no! you’re not ordinary,” he agreed, “and I’m rather sorry there are not some more Paddys—I like the breed.”
“Jack doesn’t,” calmly going on with her tinkering. “He started helping me to do this job, and then he got wild, and when I suggested he took the slates off the good part to mend the bad, he went off in a huff. He implied that he could do with me when I was funny, but not when I was silly,” and she chuckled to herself with a remembering relish.
“He has very bad taste. He should like you in any mood.”
“His taste is apparently much the same as yours.” Paddy looked up with a queer expression in her