Instantly she took him at
his word, and danced him up and down the hall until he was
breathless.
"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.
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