“Why, then, ma'am, you don't say so,” answered Murphy; “it seems hard on the poor things that keep us all going. The potheen and the potatoes—what would Ireland be without 'em? Glory be to goodness, it's quite awful to hear you abusing the potato, ma'am.”
“I am English, you know,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
On this scene Nora and Biddy entered. Mr. Murphy glanced with intense relief at his daughter. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan slightly raised her brows. It was the faintest of movements, but the superciliousness of the action smote upon Nora, who colored painfully.
Biddy, taking her courage in her hand, went straight up to the august lady.
“How do you do?” she said.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan extended her hand with a limp action.
“Oh, dear!” panted Biddy.
“What is up, my dear Bridget?” said her mother, turning round and looking at her daughter. “Oh, to goodness, what have you put that on for? It's your very best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, and you won't have another, I can tell you, for six months.”
“There now, mother, hush, do,” said Biddy. “I have put it on for a purpose. Why, then, it's sweet I want to make myself, and I believe it's sweet I look. Oh, there's the mirror; let me gaze at myself.”
She crossed the room, and stood in front of a long glass, examining her unsuitable dress from the front and side; and then, being thoroughly satisfied with the elegance of appearance, she went back and stood in front of Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.