“Yes, he’s respectable, I agree, but he’s dull,” answered Dyck. “For an Irishman, he’s dull—and he’s a tyrant, too. I suppose I deserve that, for I’m a handful.”
“I think you are, and a big handful too!”
“Which way are you going?” he asked presently.
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m bound for home.” He pointed across the valley. “Do you see that smoke coming up from the plantation over there?”
“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I know. That’s Playmore, your father’s place. Loyland Towers is between here and there. Which way were you going there?”
“Round to the left,” he said, puzzled, but agreeable.
“Then we must say good-bye, because I go to the right. That’s my nearest way.”
“Well, if that’s your nearest way, I’m going with you,” he said, “because—well, because—because—”
“If you won’t talk very much!” she rejoined with a little air of instinctive coquetry.