“You look, somehow, as if you were prepared for the worst,” he told her, smiling. “Am I such a terrible ogre?”
She did not speak, and he pulled up a chair beside her and sat down, holding his thin white hands out to the blaze.
“Do you remember the last time you were in my den?” running on. “It was the night of the girls’ ‘coming-out’ dance—the ultimatum, so to speak, when you declared war. I remember it perfectly—I always shall. You were all in white, Paddy—a fluffy kind of dress that suited you, admirably. I remember being surprised to see how pretty you could look. But, of course, it was your hair—you had always treated it so abominably before. I sometimes think it is the loveliest hair I have ever seen in my life—and I’ve seen a good deal,” with a humorous little shrug. “And then, of course, your eyes are good, and there’s the fascinating mouth.”
Paddy could not resist a smile. “When you’ve done going over my points?”
“Your points are A1, Patricia,” with admiration in his eyes. “You are a thoroughbred to your finger-tips.”
“Well, don’t be personal, or I shall go. You know I don’t like it.”
“No, don’t go. I’ll try to be good.”
He was silent a moment, and slowly that same air of the previous evening, suggestive of sadness, crept over her face again, and there was a weariness in her attitude as she sat back watching the flames and clasping each arm of the chair with delicate, tapering fingers.
“Paddy,” he said simply, “chuck all those foolish doubts and fancies of yours, and give in. I can’t bear to see you looking forlorn.”
“I will not: I will never give in.”