“Oh, but I really cannot drink it. I hate it!” she urged.
“Then have some on your handkerchief,” said Geoffrey soothingly; “like the man who became a teetotaller after indulging for years, and being asked to take some real ‘mountain dew,’ reluctantly declined, but said, ‘Give me a drop on my handkerchief, it will do me good to smell it.’”
“Hold out your handkerchief; it will be all the same as if you swallowed it.”
“Geoffrey, I declare I think you are quite off your head at times; is he not, Mary?—or is it his Irish proclivities breaking out?” said Alice, waving away Geoffrey and the claret-jug.
“Don’t you talk about Irish proclivities, ma’am; you have a strong suspicion of the blarney-stone yourself, and Irish eyes, and a real Irish temper.”
“Geoffrey, how can you say so?”
“Very easily. I often see you blarneying and wheedling that child of yours as only an Irishwoman can. I suppose you don’t say, ‘Ah, won’t you now, just to please mother?’ and you coaxed and talked me out of that photo of——”
“Geoffrey, I declare, if you say another word, I’ll never be friends with you again!” exclaimed Alice, half rising.
“Oh, all right, I’m dumb; but you did, you know; and I maintain that your Irishisms are as thick as the leaves in Vallambrosa. Why should the leaves be thicker there than anywhere else?” said he, standing up and looking round. “Can anyone tell me? I thought not. Well, I’m off, not to study the leaves, but the fruit in the garden.”