se in itself.
After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week
or two in stolid England. You agree with me?"

"I am English," returns he.

"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had
entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to
Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?"

She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless
expression.

"No," returns he briefly.

"Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder,
and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper
meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to
acknowledge it. "Still, even that _betise_ of mine need not prevent you
from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish,
eh?"

"Your charm?"

"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"--recklessly and with a shrug
of her shoulders--"if you wish to be personal."

She has gone a little too far.

"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly
and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug--shading her
face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your
charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern.
"Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all--your
altered manner--everything? Why did you grant me this interview?"

"Perhaps because"--still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as
early frost--"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be
happy till you got it.'"

She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close
imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is
no heart in it.

"You think I arranged it?"

"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up
her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?"
says she, "well, say it!"

"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at
his heart.

"Why not--would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting
throughout.

"You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its
motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?"

"Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet--yes; to get a thing over is
to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have
come to the conclusion----"

"For yourself!"

"Well, for you too," a little imp