She smilingly ignored what I had said.

“Tell me,” she persisted, “are you not at her pretty feet already? Is not your very soul down on its worthy marrow-bones before this girl?”

“Is not every gallant gentleman who comes to Croghan’s at the feet of Miss de Contrecoeur?”

“One or two are in the neighbourhood of my feet,” she remarked.

“Aye, and too near to please me,” said I.

“Who, for example?”

“Boyd — for example,” I replied, giving her a hearty scowl.

“Oh!” she drawled airily. “He is not yet near enough my ankles to please me.”