"I am not makin' no cracks at th' build iv yez," Mrs. Foley assured her. "A foine, well-growed shlip iv a gyurl ye are; an' a swate arrumful—"
"Mrs. Foley!" Jean cried, cheeks afire.
"Well, glory be, an' what else is a gyurl's waist an' a man's arrum for?" Mrs. Foley demanded practically. "Sure, I am no quince-mouthed owld maid, talkin' wide iv phwat ivery woman—maid, wife, an' widdy—knows. I misdoubt, f'r all yer high head, ye're in love wid th' lad. Then why don't ye let love take its coorse?"
"I'm not in love with him," Jean declared. "I don't want to see him. I wish he'd go away."
"An' if he did ye'd be afther cryin' thim purty brown eyes out."
"I would not!" Jean asseverated. "He's nothing to me—less than nothing."
"Well, well, God knows our hearts," Mrs. Foley commented piously. "Foour min I've buried, an' I know their ways."
"You might have another husband if you liked," Jean told her by way of counter-attack.
"Ye mane th' big Swede," Mrs. Foley responded calmly, "Maybe I could. But I've had no luck keepin' min, an' he might not last either, though him bein' phwat he is it might not matther. Still an' all, buryin' husbands is onsettlin' to a woman."
"But Gus is so healthy!" Jean giggled.