He took a pencil and on a white cloth made a hasty sketch of an airplane.

"In a--a corial like this--" She regarded the sketch gravely, thrust a hand down into her girdle and brought forth a keen-bladed poniard; cut Larry's markings out and placed the fragment carefully aside.
"That I can understand," she said.
"Remarkably intelligent young woman," muttered O'Keefe.

"Hope I'm not giving anything away--but she had me." "But what are your women like, Larree?
Are they like me?
And how many have loved you ?" she whispered.
"In all Ireland and America there is none like you, Yolara," he answered.

"And take that any way you please," he muttered in English.
She took it, it was evident, as it most pleased her.
"Do you have goddesses ?" she asked.
"Every woman in Ireland and America, is a goddess"; thus Larry.
"Now that I do not believe." There was both anger and mockery in her eyes.

"I know women, Larree--and if that were so there would be no peace for men." "There isn't!" replied he.