Paddy had motioned to him to take a chair, and sat down on the sofa; but Ted, being no less masterful than of old, and quite as certain as to his mind, sat down on the sofa beside her instead.
“I can’t tell you just all I feel,” he said, in that quiet, convincing way of his. “I wish I could, but I think you must know it has all been like a personal sorrow.”
“You are very good,” Paddy murmured gratefully. She was so glad to see him—he was like the first link from the old home since she parted from Jack at Holyhead.
“How did you know I was here!”
“I wired to my aunt for your address directly I received the letter. I wanted to call sooner, but was prevented by business. We have been kept late at the works every night for a week. I’m afraid this London arrangement will be very hard on you,” he said, so kindly that Paddy felt the tears coming back.
“A little,” she answered, trying to pull herself together, “but it won’t be so bad when I’m used to it.”
She tried to meet his eyes, but could not, and instead looked away, blinking hard.
“Poor little girl,” said Ted in a very low voice, half to himself, and covered his eyes with his hand a moment, as if there was something in them he felt he must hide from her. She little knew how that pair of strong arms beside her ached to fold her tight, and take her away then and there from this London she so hated.
“I wish I could do something,” he said at last. “It’s hard to have to sit still, and feel as I feel, and see no way to help.”
“You mustn’t take it like that,” trying to speak brightly. “Mother and Eileen will be here soon, and then it will be much better for me.”