"Ha! Cat'lic?"
"Oh, no," I answered, eager to break the embarrassing silence—"oh, no; I'm a Protestant."
"Ha! But you be Irish, ben't you?"
I laughed. "No; American!"
"Ha! Father and mother Irish, mebbe?"
"No, they were American, too; but my great-great-grandfather and-grandmother were Irish."
"Aye, that's it! I knowed you was Irish the minute I seen them red cheeks, eh! sister Manners?" chuckled brother Mason in a rich brogue, rubbing his hands and looking across at my room-mate, who had been apparently oblivious to our conversation, as she washed and wiped the dishes out of a tin basin which I recognized as that from which we had washed our hands and faces after we got home from work. She now fixed the visitor with her periwinkle eyes, and replied severely:
"I ain't got nothing to say against my lady-friend's looks, as you certainly know, brother Mason."
Something in this answer—no doubt, a hint of smothered jealousy—made brother Mason throw his hand to his mouth and duck his head as he darted a sly look toward me. But I met the look with a serious face, and indeed I felt serious enough without getting myself into any imbroglio with this strange pair of lovers.
"You're Irish, I suppose, Mr. Mason?" I asked when he had recovered his gravity after this mirth-provoking incident.