gracefully over the division of
the car, "you know, Jenny, our regiment--the 127th of the Line, as we
call ours--was absolutely cut to pieces at Drieufontein; and at
Riviersdorp they held the position against two thousand Boers."

"Who cares?" said Jenny.

"You might take a little interest in it."

"Well," said Jenny, "how can I?"

"But you might be interested because, after all, it is my regiment, and
I'm awfully fond of you, little girl."

"Don't be soppy," Jenny advised him.

"You're so cursedly matter-of-fact."

"Eh?"

"So--oh, well, damn it, Jenny, you don't seem to care whether I'm with
you or not."

"Why should I?"

"Any other girl would be fond of me."

"Ah--any other girl would."

"Then why aren't you?"

"Oh, you'll pass in a crowd."

"Dash it, I'm frightfully in love with you," vowed Terence.

"What's the good of spoiling a fine day by being silly?"

"Damn it, nobody else but me would stick your rudeness."

And Terence would sulk, and Jenny would hum, and the jaunting car would
go jaunting on.

On the last night of the pantomime Mr. O'Meagh called for her as usual,
and, as they drove off, said:

"Look here, Miss Jenny, you're coming back to my rooms with me
to-night."

"Am I?" said Jenny. "That's news."

"By Jove, you are!"

"No fear."

"You shall!"

Terence caught hold of her hand.

"Let me go," Jenny said.

"I'm damned if I will. Look here, you know, you can't make a fool of an
Irishman."

"That's quite right," Jenny agreed.

"When an Irishman says he'll have a thing, he'll have it."

"Well, you won't have Jenny Pearl."

"Look here, I've been jolly good to you. I gave you----"

"What?" interrupted Jenny in dangerous tones. "Look!"

She unbuckled a wrist-watch and flung it into the road.

"There's your watch, anyway. Going to get down and pick it up?"

Terence whipped up the horse.

"You little devil, you shall come with me."

Jenny caught hold of the reins.

"Shut up!" said O'Meagh. "Shut up! Don't you know better than that?"

"Well, stop," said Jenny.

The subaltern, in order to avoid a scene, stopped.

"Look here," Jenny told him. "You think yourself a lad, I know, and you
think girls can't say 'no' to you; but I can, see? You and your little
cottages for two! Not much!" and Jenny slipped down from the car and
vanished.

"Men," she said to Winnie Ambrose, the only one left of the Glasgow
Quartette. "Men! I think men are awful. I do. Really. Conceit