Part 1 (1/2)
Paddy-The-Next-Best-Thing.
by Gertrude Page.
CHAPTER ONE.
CONCERNING PADDY'S BLOUSE.
Paddy Adair, the ”next-best-thing,” as she was fond of calling herself, and the reason for which will appear hereafter, sat at the table, and spread all around her were little square books of ”patterns for blouses,” from which she was vainly endeavouring to make a selection.
Meanwhile she kept up a running conversation with the only other occupant of the room, a girl with dreamy eyes of true Irish blue, who sat in the window, motionless, gazing across the Loch at the distant mountains. She heard no word of all her sister was saying, but that did not appear to trouble Paddy in the least, so doubtless it was not an unusual state of affairs.
”This one with green spots and pink roses would look the best with my blue skirt,” Paddy said, holding one pattern at arm's length and surveying it critically, ”but the blue one with the white border would look better with my grey. I wonder which you would choose, Eily? I wonder which would be the most becoming to my peculiar style of beauty, or,” with a twinkle in her eyes, ”I should say the most concealing to my unique lack of it. I think I'll risk the green spots and pink roses, because it doesn't really look half bad with the grey.
”Oh, but my hat!” with a comical exclamation of dismay, ”there's my silly old hat has got pansies in it, and they'd look just awful with the green and pink, Eileen! What _am_ I to do, with all my things different colours, that don't seem any of them to go together? I wonder if I'd better bring out my whole wardrobe and go through the hundred and one patterns again? Or shall I have a white-bordered thing, that is not particular and will go with just all of them? Only I'd have to start at the beginning to find it, and I'm so sick of the very sight of them.
Here have I had these patterns three days, and I've already spent about five pounds' worth of brain-power upon a blouse that will cost five s.h.i.+llings. If only you'd help, Eileen!” looking up toward the figure in the window, ”instead of staring at those silly old mountains like a stuffed goose!
”Eileen!”--as the dreamer took no notice--”Eileen! do you hear that I'm floundering in a sea of patterns! Your one and only sister, and you sit there like an Egyptian mummy stuffed with dried peas!
”I'll make you help--so there,”--and with a sudden movement she swept all the books of patterns into her arms and deposited them, helter-skelter, upon her sister's head, laughing gayly at the picture of solemn-faced Eileen with the little square books scattered all around and upon her.
”Now, Miss Sphinx,” she said, ”do you think you could come down from the clouds for five minutes and discuss anything so distressingly earthy as clothes?”
Eileen's face broke into a very sweet smile. She had not in the least intended to be indifferent, but long before Paddy commenced consulting her she had been in the middle of composing a lovely poem about mountains and streams and birds and things, and she had not really heard any of her remarks at all.
”What's the matter, Paddy?” she asked, eyeing the scattered patterns with amus.e.m.e.nt.
”Matter!” cried Paddy, ”everything's the matter! How on earth am I to select a blouse that will go with a blue dress, a green dress, a grey dress, a hat with pansies in, and a scarlet tam-o'-shanter! I've been worrying with those stupid patterns for days, and instead of getting any nearer a decision, I keep on thinking of something fresh that nothing seems to go with. Now it's your turn to worry; you ought to, you know, because Charity begins at home.”
”Why not have something in cream?” suggested Eileen; ”it saves a lot of bother.”
”Yes, and what do I look like in cream, with my sallow skin? It's all very well for you with your ivory and roses, you look well in anything.
I don't think it was at all fair for you to have everything nice while I am burdened for life with a sallow skin and a snub nose. Cream flannel would be nearly as bad as brown holland for me, and when I wear brown holland you can't tell where the dress ends and I begin,” and the corners of Paddy's mischievous mouth were momentarily drawn down in great disgust.
”You could wear bright-coloured ties,” suggested Eileen, ”and have one of every colour you wanted.”
”Why so I could,” brightening up, ”and provided I don't always lose the colour I want at the moment of requiring it, it will save a lot of bother.”
”But you always will, you know,” said a gay masculine voice; ”you'll keep every one waiting five minutes longer than usual hunting for the required colour, and then turn up in a red tie with a green hat,” and before either of them could speak, Jack O'Hara, from the Parsonage, was coming through the window, head first, trailing his long legs after him.
”I've just had a little practice at this sort of thing,” he ran on. ”I came from Newry, with the Burtons, a whole carriage full of them, and we had a great time. The train was just going to start when I arrived, and the station master had locked their compartment, and when I asked him to let me in, he tried to put me into a smoker next door. I said, 'No, thanks, not for Jack this journey.' He murmured something about the Burton's carriage being full up, and I couldn't go in it, so I said, 'You see if I can't,' and took a header through the window, right on to their laps.”
”But you don't know them!” exclaimed Paddy, whose face at the same time expressed the greatest relish at the episode.
”I've been introduced,” was the calm reply. ”Fletcher introduced me in Hill Street a week ago.”
”Whatever did they think of you?” asked Eileen, unable to resist smiling.
”Oh, we had a ripping time. They're awfully jolly girls, and they had that little imp Basil with them. He amused himself trying to throw everything he could get at out of the window as we went along. But touching this blouse,” with a sudden change of voice, ”why don't you ask my advice? You haven't either of you a grain of taste compared to mine.”
”Yours!” exclaimed Paddy scornfully, ”and there you sit with emerald green in your stockings, a yellow waistcoat, and a terra cotta tie.”
”What's the matter with my stockings?” surveying his fine pair of legs with an air of pride. ”That's the O'Hara tartan; I'm very proud of it.