“Here are the others,” she said, almost with an air of relief. “They have just seen us and are coming in.”
“Hullo!” cried Paddy, as they came within earshot. “I hope your Serene Highness is well.”
“Very well, thank you,” replied Lawrence, giving her his hand as the boat reached the landing-stage. “I was just remarking to your sister, that you had not succeeded in getting yourself transported to a better clime yet!”
“No, the old proverb seems to be reversed in my case, I am not too good to live, but too good to die.”
“Or else too bad, and so you are always getting another chance given you,” remarked Jack.
“Be quiet, Jack O’Hara, for the pot to call the kettle black is the height of meanness. Come out of that boat and say ‘how do you do’ prettily to this great man from abroad,” and her brown eyes shone bewitchingly.
Everybody in the neighbourhood teased Paddy, and Lawrence was no exception.
“’Pon my soul!” he exclaimed with feigned surprise, “I believe you’re growing pretty, Paddy.”
“Nothing so commonplace,” tossing her small head jauntily. “What you take for mere prettiness is really soul. I am developing a high-minded, noble, sanctified expression; as I consider it very becoming to my general style of conversation. Father thinks it is ‘liver,’ but that unfortunately is his lack of appreciation, and also his saving grace for all peculiarities.”
“I should call it pique,” said Jack, “if by any chance I was ever treated to a glimpse of anything so utterly foreign in the way of expressions, on your physiognomy.”