Paddy could only acquiesce, and of course Gwen and her giant were very quickly steaming ahead, with that expression of blissful satisfaction which is to be seen in the very backs of some amorous couples.
Paddy once more commenced to converse with affable politeness to her somewhat incommunicative companion.
At last her small stock of patience gave out.
“It’s your turn now,” she said a trifle witheringly. “I’ve thought of the last half-dozen remarks.”
Lawrence gave a low laugh. “I hope you don’t want me to think they were any strain,” he said.
Of course no self-respecting daughter of an Irish Fusilier could stand that. “I wished to be polite,” she retorted, “so I tried to suit my remarks to my company.”
“Then I wonder you don’t discourse on villains, and ogres, and blood-thirsty monsters, and that sort of thing.”
“I am quite sorry I couldn’t,” with a little snort. “Only inane platitudes seemed adaptable.”
Again Lawrence laughed.
“You’re a stunner at repartee, Paddy. I never knew such a fighter in my life. First it was fists, then feet, and now it’s tongue.”