"She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the person in question in his mind.
"More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week or two in stolid England. You agree with me?"
"I am English," returns he.
"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?"
She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless expression.
"No," returns he briefly.
"Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to acknowledge it. "Still, even that bêtise of mine need not prevent you from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, eh?"
"Your charm?"
"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"—recklessly and with a shrug of her shoulders—"if you wish to be personal."
She has gone a little too far.