"I'm sure I don't know, John. I've been brought up with cotton-spinners, and it is little they praise, if it be not good yarns and warps and wefts and big factories with high, high chimneys."
"Well, then, cotton-spinners are mostly very fine singers. You know that, mother."
"To be sure, but they don't make a business of singing, not they, indeed! They work while they sing. But to see a strapping young man in evening dress or in some other queer make of clothes, step forward before a crowd and throw about his arms and throw up his eyes and sing like nothing that was ever heard in church or chapel is a stunningly silly sight, John. I saw and heard a lot of such rubbishy singing and dressing when I was in London."
"Still, I think we ought to be proud of Harry."
"
Such nonsense! I'm more than a bit ashamed of him. I am that! You can't respect people who amuse you, like you do men who put their hands to the world's daily work. No, you can not, John. I would have been better suited if Harry had stuck to his painting business. He could have done that in his own house, shut up and quiet like; but when I was in London I saw pictures of Henry Hatton, of our Harry, mind ye, singing in all makes and manners of fool dresses. I hope to goodness his father does not know a Hatton man is exhibiting himself to gentle and simple in such disreputable clothes. I have been wondering your father hasn't been to see me about it."
"To see you, mother?"
"To be sure. If there's anything wrong at Hatton, he generally comes and gives me his mind on the same."
"You mean that you dream he does?"
"You may as well call it 'dreaming' as anything else. The name you give it doesn't matter, does it?"