"I don't believe it, Bessie. You ought to be complimented to see how hard I am willing to work for a kiss."
"I 'll not believe you again."
"That is nothing new, Bessie, darlin'. You are a most unbelieving young female at best."
"There is some one at the door, Tom," said Bessie, her quick ear hearing a foot on the doorstep.
"Come in," said Moore, in answer to Farrell's knock, and that young gentleman entered, carrying himself in so evident an imitation of Sir Percival Lovelace that the poet roared outright.
"What is the joke?" asked Farrell, not at all pleased at Moore's laughter.
"You are, Terry," replied the other. "Faith, it is too bad entirely that we have n't a glass so you could see. My, but you are a macaroni, Terence. Is Lovelace pleased with his pupil?"
And, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket in emulation of Farrell's manipulation of his, Moore proceeded to swagger up and down the schoolhouse in so accurate an imitation of Farrell's recently adopted manner of comporting himself that even Bessie laughed.
Farrell grew red with anger, but, deciding this was not the time to resent Moore's fun, apparently took the performance in good part.
"You are in fine spirits, Tom," he observed, laying his hat on a convenient stool.