Love at Paddington

by W. Pett Ridge

"So Mr. Henry explained to me; and because he was so very good as to ask your cousin Clarence down, we have made a bargain between each other. I am to look after you, if you don't mind, and see that you get through all right."

"In a general way," confessed Gertie Higham, "I can look after myself, but just now it's likely I may be glad of a wrinkle or two." The other nodded.

"I have some on my forehead to spare, thanks to Lady Douglass. This is your room"—throwing open a door—"and mine is here, next door. Come along in, and let us have a talk."

Miss Loriner had a good deal to say, mainly in describing her present happiness. Clarence was a dear; Clarence was a clever dear, Clarence had brought a joy into her life that had previously been absent. Hitherto Miss Loriner, living in houses as a companion to some testy and difficult woman, found herself only annoyed by the attentions of men of the Jim Langham type; it was new and enchanting to be approached courteously. Gertie, when the other stopped to regain breath, managed to ask how Henry Douglass filled his time, and was surprised, and partially hurt, to discover that he still went up to Old Quebec Street on five days of the week.

"He might have called at the shop," she argued.

Miss Loriner, for the defence, commended him for his industry. Henry would, later, have to face the alternative of either giving up his office in London, or relinquishing duties in the country, but at present he was engaged in a double task; and if Gertie appreciated how difficult it proved to deal with Lady Douglass, she would not utter a word of blame in regard to Henry. One of Lady Douglass's inconvenient tricks was to shift responsibility. As a case in point, take the entertainment to which they were going that evening. Lady Douglass, having promised to organize it, had done not a single thing in the way of—

"Is the place on fire?" asked Gertie, startled.

"That's the first warning for dinner. You have twenty minutes to dress. Be sure to let me know if there is anything you want."

Gertie left, to return immediately with a concerned expression and the announcement that her portmanteau had been robbed of every blessed thing it contained. Miss Loriner accompanied her to make investigations, and, switching on the electric light, pointed out that the maid had unpacked the bag—the articles were on the dressing-table, and hanging up in the wardrobe. Gertie had only to ring, and the maid would come at once to help her to dress. Gertie said she had done this without assistance since the age of three.

Apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved for weeks. Her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as each course arrived; envied the composure with which Clarence dealt with such trying dishes as vol au vent and artichokes. Her serviette was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and distress increased each time that Henry recovered it; generally, at these moments of confusion, Lady Douglass took the opportunity to send down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to Henry for replying on her behalf. Henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. Jim Langham excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought Miss Higham as a Londoner would relish. The anecdote was but half told when Miss Higham turned abruptly.