"You won't have time," says Kit, contemptuously. "She—whoever she may be—will be sure to jilt you first."
"Look here," says Terence, eyeing his younger sister with much disfavor; "you're getting so precious sharp, you know, that I should think there'll be a conflagration on the Liffey before long; and I should think, too, that an outraged nation would be sure to fling the cause of it into the flames. So take care."
"Terence, you ought to send that gun back at once," says Monica.
"Perhaps I ought, but certainly I shan't," says Terence, genially. "And if I were you," politely, "I wouldn't make an ass of myself. There is quite enough of that sort of thing going on up there," indicating, by a wave of his hand, the drawing-room at Moyne, where the Misses Blake are at present dozing.
"You shouldn't speak of them like that," says Monica; "it is very ungrateful of you, when you know how kind they are, and how fond of you."
"Well, I'm fond of them, too," says Terence, remorsefully but gloomily; "and I'd be even fonder if they would only leave me alone. But they keep such a look-out on a fellow that sometimes I feel like cutting the whole thing and making a clean bolt of it."
"If you ran away you would soon be wishing yourself back again," says Monica, scornfully. "You know you will have no money until you are twenty-one. People pretend to be discontented, at times, with their lives; but in the long run they generally acknowledge 'there is no place like home.'"
"No, thank goodness, there isn't," says Terence, with moody fervor. "I'll acknowledge it at once, without the run. To have frequent repetitions of it would be more than human nature could endure. I have known two homes already; I should think a third would be my death."
So saying, he shoulders the forbidden gun and marches off.
Monica and Kit, getting down from their elevated position, also pursue their path, which leads in a contrary direction.