“But what will your mother say?”
“Bless her!” said Biddy, “she won't even notice. Here, let's whip on the dress.”
She hastily divested herself of her ragged cotton skirt, and put on the pale blue with the dirty silk flounces.
“What are you looking so grave for?” she said, glancing up at Nora. “I declare you're too stately for anything, Nora O'Shanaghgan! You stand there, and I know you criticise me.”
“No; I love you too much,” replied Nora. “You are Biddy Murphy, one of my greatest friends.”
“Ah, it's sweet to hear her,” said Biddy.
“But, all the same,” continued Nora, “I don't like that dress, and it's terribly unsuitable. You don't look ladylike in it.”
“Ladylike, and I with the blood of——”
“Oh, don't begin that,” said Nora; “every time I see you you mention that fact. I have not the slightest doubt that the old kings were ruffians, and dressed abominably.”
“If you dare,” said Biddy. She rushed up to the bed, dragged out her pillow, and held it in a warlike attitude. “Another word about my ancestors, and this will be at your devoted head!” she cried.