“Well, anyhow, I’d sooner have Omeath,” said Paddy.
“It is heresy,” he cried, “rank heresy—and you an Englishwoman.”
“Irish,” corrected Paddy, very decidedly.
“Ah, yes, to be sure! And I suppose you’re—er—very proud of it. Funny thing how the Irish fancy their nationality.”
“Not half so funny as some of the things you fancy yourselves for over in England,” she retorted, getting a little exasperated.
Basil glanced down over his collar rather as if he were taking stock of a curious kind of animal, and Paddy began to fidget. She was becoming more and more conscious of a desperate impulse to ruffle his hair, and tumble his collar, and disarrange generally this painfully well-dressed young man, with his air of extreme condescension.
“Ah!” he said satirically, “you cultivate the art of repartee in Ireland—as well as potatoes.”
“We cultivate men, too,” with scorn. “You ought to go over there and finish your education.”
This rather took his breath away for a minute, and while he was recovering Paddy’s mood changed.
“That was rude,” she said. “I’m sorry.”