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LOVE AT PADDINGTON


by

W. PETT RIDGE







[Frontispiece]




Thomas Nelson and Sons
London, Edinburgh, Dublin
Leeds, Melbourne, and New York
Leipzig: 35-37 Koenigstrasse.  Paris: 189, rue Saint-Jacques




NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

  Mord Em'ly.
  Secretary to Bayne, M.P.
  A Son of the State.
  Lost Property.
  'Erb.
  A Breaker of Laws.
  Mrs. Galer's Business.
  The Wickhamses.
  Name of Garland.
  Sixty-nine Birnam Road.
  Splendid Brother.
  Thanks to Sanderson.




First Published in 1912




LOVE AT PADDINGTON.


CHAPTER I.

Children had been sent off to Sunday school, and the more conscientious
reached that destination; going in, after delivering awful threats and
warnings to those who preferred freedom of thought and a stroll down
Edgware Road in the direction of the Park.  As a consequence, in the
streets off the main thoroughfare leading to Paddington Station peace
and silence existed, broken only by folk who, after the principal meal
of the week, talked in their sleep.  Praed Street was different.  Praed
Street plumed itself on the fact that it was always lively, ever on the
move, occasionally acquainted with royalty.  Even on a Sunday
afternoon, and certainly at all hours of a week-day, one could look
from windows at good racing, generally done by folk impeded by hand
luggage who, as they ran, glanced suspiciously at every clock, and
gasped, in a despairing way, "We shall never do it!" or,
optimistically, "We shall only just do it!" or, with resignation,
"Well, if we lose this one we shall have to wait for the next."

Few establishments were open in Praed Street, shutters were up at the
numerous second-hand shops, and at the hour of three o'clock p.m. the
thirst for journals at E. G. Mills's (Established 1875) was satisfied;
the appetite for cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco had scarcely begun.
Now and again a couple of boys, who had been reading stories of wild
adventure in the Rocky Mountains, dashed across the road, upset one of
Mrs. Mills's placard boards, and flew in opposite directions, feeling
that although they might not have equalled the daring exploits of their
heroes in fiction, they had gone as far as was possible in a country
hampered by civilization.

"Young rascals!" said Mrs. Mills, coming back after repairing one of
these outrages.  The shop had a soft, pleasing scent of tobacco from
the brown jars, marked in gilded letters "Bird's Eye" and "Shag" and
"Cavendish," together with the acrid perfume of printer's ink.  "Still,
I suppose we were all young once.  Gertie," raising her voice, "isn't
it about time you popped upstairs to make yourself good-looking?
There's no cake in the house, and that always means some one looks in
unexpectedly to tea."

No answer.

"Gertie!  Don't you hear me when I'm speaking to you?"

"Beg pardon, aunt.  I was thinking of something else."

"You think too much of something else, my dear," said Mrs. Mills
persuasively.  "I was saying to a customer, only yesterday, that you
don't seem able lately to throw off your work when you've