"If that is the case," said Kathleen, "I heartily hope that I shall not live to be a woman. I wouldn't like us all to be as fagged as she is—poor, dear, gentle soul! She's overworked, and that's the truth."
Kathleen saw that she was annoying Alice, and proceeded with great gusto to expand her theory with regard to Mrs. Tennant.
"She's in the condition when she might drop any time," she said. "We have had old Irishwomen overworked like
that, and all of a sudden they went out like snuffs: that is what happens. What are you putting on your best hat for?"
"That is no affair of yours."
"Oh, hoity-toity, how grand we are! Do you know, Alice, you haven't got at all nice manners. You think you have, but you haven't. We are never rude like that in Ireland. We tell a few lies now and then, but they are only polite lies—the kind that make other people happy. Alice, I should like to know which is best—to be horribly cross, or to tell nice polite lies. Which is the most wicked? I should like to know."
"Then I will tell you," said Alice. "What you call a nice lie is just a very great and awful sin; and if you don't believe me, go to church and listen when the commandments are read."
"In future," said Kathleen very calmly, "now that I really know your views, I will always tell you home truths. You can't blame me, can you?"
Alice deigned no answer. She went downstairs and let herself out of the house.
"And that is the sort of girl I have exchanged for daddy and the mother and the boys," thought the Irish girl. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"