‘That’s mighty hard on boys in general,’ said Desmond laughingly, ‘for they’re mostly some girl’s cousin. I may be myself, for all I know. But Richard’s as fond of you as a fox of a goose—a duck, I mean. And that’s why he hates me.’
‘For shame, Desmond! How has he ever shown that he hates you?’
‘Shown it? Faith, he doesn’t need to show it. It just comes out of him like steam from boiling water. Much I care for the hate or the love of the likes o’ him! I can run him out of breath, fight him out of time, gallop him out of hearing, swim him out of seeing, chaff him out of temper—and as for loving, sure if he loves you, I’ll just adore you, and so beat him at that as well!’
The girl smiled, with her face concealed by the brim of her sun-bonnet, and turned a little away from this brisk wooer, whose bursts of affectionate impudence were generally followed by long intervals of silence.
‘You adore too many, Desmond,’
‘Sorra one but yourself.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Dulcie. ‘What were you doing with Rosie this morning in the stable-yard?’
‘I mistook her for her mistress,’ said Desmond. ‘No, sure,’ he added, as the girl flushed a little angrily, ‘I don’t mane that.’
‘I should think you didn’t “mane that!”’ said the young lady. ‘I should like to catch you kissing me.’
‘I’m agreeable to be caught,’ returned the unabashable.