“You are both leagued against me,” continued the mother, shaking her head. “If the same thing happens again, Lawrence, I shall just expect you to marry her yourself, and what will happen to your quiet Irish home then I’m afraid to think.” She spread out her hands with a gesture of hopelessness, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that made the mother and daughter for a moment wonderfully alike. “Gwen buried in the Mourne Mountains would result in a social tornado, and a year of libel actions. She’d just scandalise the whole countryside and set every one quarrelling to break the monotony, and though you think you are very strong-minded, Lawrence, you’d find your match in Gwen; and I ought to know, being her mother.” Owen laughed gayly, without the smallest shadow of self-consciousness, for marriage between herself and Lawrence had been so long talked of with jesting freedom that it embarrassed neither of them in the smallest degree, although there were many who firmly believed it would eventually ensue. “We’d get mummie to come and smooth things over, wouldn’t we?” she laughed, and sauntered to the piano, afterward singing several songs in a rich and beautiful contralto. When she was tired of singing she came back to the fireplace and, seating herself upon a low footstool, remarked to her mother with a side-glance at Lawrence: “Has Lawrie told you about his Irish friend yet, mummie?” “No,” looking up questioningly. “Hasn’t he?” in feigned surprise. “I am astounded. He’s just full of her.” “Her?” repeated Mrs Carew, raising her eyebrows significantly. “Yes, _her_—and she _hates_ me, mummie. What do you think of that?” “But surely she doesn’t know you?” “That’s of no account at all. She’s rather given to hating, for she hates Lawrie too—at least she says she does.” “I hardly see how she can be his friend then.” “Oh, yes! it’s simple enough. If I say I hate a man, I find it’s generally a sure sign I rather like him. Only I’m surprised she’s found the trick out, buried among those old mountains.” “All the mountain ranges in the world piled up round a woman wouldn’t make her other than contrary,” remarked Lawrence. “I can imagine her wrestling and struggling to get away, and then a deliverer of the male sex comes along and proceeds to help her, says something she doesn’t like, or doesn’t say something she does like, and she would promptly sit down and say she adored mountain ranges and wouldn’t be in any other spot for the world.” “Of course,” exclaimed Gwen, “you wouldn’t have us grow as milk and watery and monotonous as the male sex, would you? That’s just what makes us so interesting.” “Irritating would be nearer the mark.” “Well, both if you like. One is just as good for you as the other. But touching this Irish girl, what’s her name, Lawrie?” “There were two I told you of. Which do you mean?” “Why, the one who hates, of course. The other doesn’t count, especially if she’s goody-goody.” “The hater is Paddy Adair.”