“But, my dear child—” began Mrs Adair in great distress, while Jack threw a newspaper at her head and said:
“Don’t talk rubbish, Paddy.”
Eileen looked dumbfounded.
“It is not rubbish,” Paddy went on bravely, “and nothing you can say will alter me. I have spoken to uncle about it, and he is going to let me live with them and pay something.” She paused a moment, drawing a pattern on the tablecloth. “He does not want me to pay,” she went on, “he says he will be only too glad to have me, but I would like to feel perfectly independent. He is lonely sometimes, and he always wanted a daughter.”
A mistiness crossed her eyes, and she smiled a little crooked smile as she added:
“Daddy always wanted a son, and I did my best. He is daddy’s brother, and he wants a daughter—I am going to do my best again. I never seem to quite ‘get there,’ do If—I am evidently destined only to shine as a substitute—to be only the-next-best-thing.”
“But, Paddy,” coming behind her and leaning over the table with his arm across her shoulders, “you hate London so,” coaxed Jack. “How are Eileen and I to be perfectly happy, thinking of you pining for fresh air here?”
“You must not think—it would only be silly—you will have each other and,”—there was a little catch in her voice—“mother.”
Mrs Adair looked up quickly; hitherto she had not spoken.
“No, Paddy,” she said, “I shall stay with you. I do not mind London at all now I have got used to it, and I could not leave you behind alone. I should not be happy at Omeath without you.”