“Egad, I wish you wouldn’t tell me that so often—have some regard for my poor heart.”
She tossed her head. “Your heart, indeed! which heart? An Irishman has a hundred and a different girl for every one.”
“This Irishman has a million hearts—and the same girl for them all.”
She put the tip of her parasol to the wall, and leaned lightly against it.
“And how many hearts has she?” she asked.
He shook his head sadly. “None—none—not the faintest trace of one.”
She bent further over, and tightened the bow of blue ribbon on the staff.
“May be you’re not the one to find it,” she smiled—“another man——” and the merry eyes glinted gaily through the long lashes.
“Oh, I’m the man—and she knows it.”
A little laugh rippled forth—“And does she know, also, your stupendous self sufficiency?”