“There!” she said, holding up the naked stem triumphantly; “I knew it.”
“It would be a fairer test, had you a daisy, Helena,” said I, “or something with more leaves; not that I know whose has been this ordeal. Suppose it were myself, and that you tried this one.” I handed her a trefoil, but she waved it aside.
“I will try to find you a four leaf clover for your own, after a while,” said she, and bobbed me a very pretty courtesy. Angered, I caught at the stick I was carrying with so sudden a grip that I broke it in two.
“I did not know your hands were so strong, Harry,” said she.
“Would they were stronger!” was my retort. “And were I in charge of the affairs of Providence, the first thing I would do would be to wring the neck of every woman in the world.”
“And then set out to put them together again, Harry? Don’t be silly.”
“Oh, yes, naturally. But you must admit, Helena, that women have no sense of reason whatever. For instance, if you really were trying out the fortune of some man on a daisy’s head, you would not accept the decree of fate, any more than you could tell why you loved him or loved him not. Why does a woman love a man, Helena? You say I must not be silly—should I then be wise?”
“No, you are much too wise, so that you often bore me.”
“Nor should he be poor?”