The bottles got rather banged about that evening, and the good doctor looked up once or twice from his writing, in his little inner sanctuary, and gently marvelled. Basil happened to be at home, and strolled into his father’s den, though only with the idea of strolling out again through the surgery door upon suitable pretext. While hovering round there was a sudden crash, which made the doctor start somewhat violently. Basil looked amused.
“Rather stormy this evening, eh?” he suggested. “Perhaps I’d better go and help to pick up the pieces,” and he strolled out at the other door.
“Is it blowing great guns and glass bottles, to-night?” he asked of Paddy, showing himself somewhat gingerly.
Paddy vouchsafed no reply.
“I understand it rained tomatoes in Regent Street this afternoon,” he went on, nothing daunted.
She could not forbear to smile.
“Who told you so?”
“Pat nearly lost his life trying to scramble off the top of a ’bus in time to pick them up for you. As far as I can make out, when he arrived on the scene a gay Lothario and a wonderful Diana were in possession of the field, and he thought well to decamp, and nearly broke his neck over again boarding another ’bus, with his eyes occupied in the wrong direction.”
“Tell Mr O’Connor he shouldn’t tell tales out of school.”
“Is it the tomato incident that is making you cross?”