“You won’t like that?”
It was because the mere thought nearly made her cry, that she replied jauntily:
“Oh! I don’t mind much. I’m getting used to London now.”
Still he would not look up.
“Shepherd’s Bush is hardly London,” a little cruelly.
“Anything is London that is not Omeath,” she retorted.
He smiled a little to himself. “I thought you had just implied that you rather liked London.”
“I said I didn’t mind going back. I don’t; Mother and Eileen will be there.” She flashed one of her old glances at him, but he was still too much occupied to look up. It made her vaguely angry. There was no necessity to treat her as if she were a wooden post. She cast about in her mind for a bone of contention, and at just that moment Lawrence finished rolling his cigarette, struck a match, and lit it.
“Well, I must be off,” in the same careless tone. “See you at the picnic, I suppose,”—and almost before she could reply he had pulled away, and gone without once looking at her.
Paddy rowed to the shore, feeling that she wanted to hit some one. “He’s growing as dull as ditch-water!” she exclaimed snappishly, as she tied up her boat.