“I am Irish,” with naïve simplicity.
“So am I, but it doesn’t make me want to lay every one out in about half-an-hour.”
“Of course not,” scornfully. “You are the sort of Irishman who goes about the world getting your countrymen a bad name. You only shine when you are doing what you ought not.”
“Another injustice to Ireland,” with mock pathos—adding: “and when you shoot barbed arrows, and fiery glances broadcast, with a reckless indifference to inflicting hurt, you are shining at doing what you ought—is that it?”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot!” with impatience. “You make an effort at being polite now, and talk sense.”
“But if being polite rests in suiting one’s conversation to one’s companion?” significantly.
“Then we won’t be polite,” laughing in spite of herself. “You can be natural and talk drivel, and I’ll be warlike.” She glanced round the park with a sudden expression, half-longing, and half-humorous—“Heaven! how I wish we could go ratting!” she said.
But before they parted they had one of their old tussles. Lawrence suddenly taxed her with looking pale and tired: “Are you ill?” he asked. “Is it that beastly dispensary?”
“I was never so well in my life before,” obstinately.
“I know better. You see, I’ve known you every single bit of your life, so I’m in a position to judge.”