“A great many of them,” she retorted tartly, and he could only see the curve of her white shoulder and the back of her head.
He knelt on one knee and began to look around on the floor with an anxious face. After a moment she looked at him over her shoulder.
“What is it?” she asked, blushing and biting her lip.
“My shamrock,” he said, peeping under the table with an air of perplexity.
“Do you always carry vegetables with you?” she asked witheringly.
“I have—since last night,” he retorted, still searching.
“And you dropped it here?” she asked innocently.
He passed his sword under a chair and drew it back slowly over the floor.
“Yes,” he replied, in a tone of deep anxiety, “’twas here.”
She moved to the other side of the fireplace.