At last her small stock of patience gave out. “It’s your turn now,” she said a trifle witheringly. “I’ve thought of the last half-dozen remarks.” Lawrence gave a low laugh. “I hope you don’t want me to think they were any strain,” he said. Of course no self-respecting daughter of an Irish Fusilier could stand that. “I wished to be polite,” she retorted, “so I tried to suit my remarks to my company.” “Then I wonder you don’t discourse on villains, and ogres, and blood-thirsty monsters, and that sort of thing.” “I am quite sorry I couldn’t,” with a little snort. “Only inane platitudes seemed adaptable.” Again Lawrence laughed. “You’re a stunner at repartee, Paddy. I never knew such a fighter in my life. First it was fists, then feet, and now it’s tongue.” “I am Irish,” with naïve simplicity. “So am I, but it doesn’t make me want to lay every one out in about half-an-hour.” “Of course not,” scornfully. “You are the sort of Irishman who goes about the world getting your countrymen a bad name. You only shine when you are doing what you ought not.” “Another injustice to Ireland,” with mock pathos—adding: “and when you shoot barbed arrows, and fiery glances broadcast, with a reckless indifference to inflicting hurt, you are shining at doing what you ought—is that it?” “Oh, don’t be an idiot!” with impatience. “You make an effort at being polite now, and talk sense.” “But if being polite rests in suiting one’s conversation to one’s companion?” significantly. “Then we won’t be polite,” laughing in spite of herself. “You can be natural and talk drivel, and I’ll be warlike.” She glanced round the park with a sudden expression, half-longing, and half-humorous—“Heaven! how I wish we could go ratting!” she said. But before they parted they had one of their old tussles. Lawrence suddenly taxed her with looking pale and tired: “Are you ill?” he asked. “Is it that beastly dispensary?” “I was never so well in my life before,” obstinately. “I know better. You see, I’ve known you every single bit of your life, so I’m in a position to judge.” “You have not,” with flat contradiction. She felt instinctively he was getting lover-like, and felt she must repress him at any cost. “How have I not? I certainly knew you when you were a month old. I was offered the supreme privilege of carrying you round the garden, but you were so like a black-beetle I funked it.” “There were the three years when you were abroad,” with a show of indifference. “Ah, to be sure, I didn’t know you then.” He smiled a little—that old whimsical smile. “Had I done so there would probably have been no second trip abroad, and no deadly feud, and Mourne Lodge might have had a second Boadicea rampaging through its stately rooms as mistress.” She quickened her steps. “I must get my ’bus now, or I shall be late. It is no use attempting to attract the attention of Gwen and her giant.”