Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly.
"Of course I worry about it! I never liked it!"
"No, I know you didn't. But Laurence isn't a bad fellow."
"That's a high praise for a man that—that—!"
"Yes, I know, you think he isn't good enough for Mary. But you wouldn't think anybody good enough."
"I've seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway—the son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn't too drunk!"
"Oh, come now, Mother! Don't shake the family crest at us. Your father was a carpenter—and don't I work for wages?"
"My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, as you know very well!" cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. "And if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn't true, you can, of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!"
"Now, Mother, who told you Laurence's ancestors trotted in bogs? They may have been—"