"This," panted the scholar, "is a fair sample of what the Irish do to the English."
"We do lead you a pretty dance, don't we, dear John Bull?" dimpled Alicia.
"You do, you engaging baggage!" he admitted. "But," he added, in a tone of satisfaction, "we manage to keep step, my dear! Oh, yes, we manage to keep step!" And he trotted off, chuckling.
"There are times," said The Author to me, darkly, "when the terrifying tirelessness of youth gives me a vertigo. Come away, Miss Smith. Leave that kitten to chase her own shadow up the wall."
"Cross-patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin—yarns!"
chanted Alicia.
"Go away, you pink-and-white delusion!" said The Author, severely. "You have made Scholarship and Wisdom put on cap and bells and prance like a morris-dancer. Isn't that mischief enough for one day?"
Alicia has a round, snow-white chin, and when she tilts it the curve of her throat is distracting.
"On second thoughts," said The Author, critically, "I discover that I do not wholly disapprove of you. Come outside. I wish to talk about the venerable, and yet common design that tops every outside window and door of this house.—What do you call that design, may I ask?"
"Why, everybody knows the Greek fret!" said Alicia, staring at it. "It's as old as the hills."