“Are you quite sure they’re engaged?” she asked presently.
“Quite. I had it from her own lips, and congratulated the two of them the same evening. It hadn’t been publicly announced yet, but she had her own reasons for telling me then. He’s rich, isn’t he? I hope so, because she’s the sort of girl who ought to have just everything she wants. He’s a thundering lucky chap,” and poor Guy looked sufficiently miserable to make his own part in the story very plain.
“Yes, he’s rich,” Paddy answered, “and he has a lovely place near Omeath. I wonder when they will be married? I don’t like the idea of somebody fresh coming there at all. I’m sure I shan’t like her.”
“I think you will. She’s very popular in India. Everybody likes her.”
“I’m rather difficult to please,” asserted Miss Paddy with her nose in the air and Guy O’Connor wondered why she seemed so unnecessarily down upon both Gwendoline and Lawrence.
At Lancaster Gate the two brothers got off, and Paddy and Basil proceeded alone. Paddy was very thoughtful, and Basil wanted to talk, which made her somewhat cross.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he said. “You’re looking real stunning! I could scarcely believe my eyes when I first saw you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” snapped Paddy. “I’ve only got a new dress on, and there’s nothing so very extraordinary in that.”
“But there is,” he insisted, “it’s all very extraordinary. The last time I saw you, you were just dressed anyhow, and suggested milking-stools and hayfields; now you’re—well, you’re a Londoner.”
“I’m not,” emphatically. “I wouldn’t be a Londoner for all the world—grasping, conceited, money-grubbing lot.”