“You know Monty Haven, don’t you? Captain Larry O’Leary, Monty, and Major O’Dell.”
So his name was Larry O’Leary, mused Isabelle. She liked its softness on the tongue.
“Does your wound trouble you, you brave thing?” Mrs. Darlington purred.
“Oh, no. Coming all right. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Do you know what this wonderful creature did, under fire and all, Monty?” she demanded.
“O kind and beautiful lady, spare me blushes. I’m after being Irish and susceptible to flattery,” he cried.
“Larry, you old heart-breaker, don’t look at me in that wistful Celtic way,” she commanded.
“Mrs. Darlington, dear, ye may as well resign yersilf to bein’ looked at,” he retorted.
“It is good to hear your blarney and your brogue, Larry. By the way, old Mrs. Van Dyke is aboard and demands a sight of you.”
“Does she now? Come along and let’s pay our respects to the old lady.”