I got the rug and spread it on the fallen trunk for her. She was what the Irish are popularly believed to call 'a shlip of a ghirl,' clad in a dark blue riding-habit that fitted her slim figure beautifully. No hat covered her thick, blue-black hair, which was parted in the middle and loosely knotted behind. Here and there a wisp of it was in the act of escaping. I watched them greedily. Merry grey eyes and the softest colouring, with a small red mouth, ready to join the eyes in their laughter if its owner listed. She was wearing natty little patent-leather boots, and her hunting hat and crop lay on the log by her side. She sat down and began to pull the gloves off a pair of small brown hands.
"Do you know if cats ever drink water?" she said musingly.
"From what I remember of last year's statistics, there was, I believe, a marked decrease in the number of alcoholism cases reported as occurring amongst that species. I'm speaking off-hand, you know."
"Never mind that: it's very good hearing."
"I know, and, talking of tight-ropes, Alice, have you seen the March Hare lately?"
She threw her head back and laughed merrily. Then—
"We are fools, you know," she said.
"Perhaps. Still, a little folly—"
"Is a dangerous thing. And, now, when do you open?"
"To-morrow week. And, owing to the iniquitous provisions of the new Shops Act, foisted by a reckless Government upon a—"