“Good-bye, ducky, you don’t mind giving me the pattern of that lace collar, do you?”—“I call her lovely!” she exclaimed with honest admiration as the cab drove off.
“And I call her a stuck-up little minx,” her mother said sharply.
“And why you couldn’t have made yourself agreeable to that young Spiller passes my comprehension,” Mrs. Ruan said in an irritable voice half an hour later. Her husband had risen to go upstairs to bed, but he paused at the door to listen to her words. Bridget lay back wearily in her chair. Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance, her eyes big and bright with tears. In the light of the gas burner overhead her hair glittered like threads of gold. The sight of the girl’s beauty, as she glanced at her, angered her mother still further. “She’ll throw away all her chances in spite of it,” she thought resentfully.
“Mother, I couldn’t,” she answered with fierce emphasis. “The man’s not a gentleman. I—”
“Not a gentleman!” interrupted her father. “Not a gentleman, indeed! And pray what do you call a gentleman? And you a publican’s daughter. P’raps you’ve forgotten it. ’E hasn’t, you may take your oath. Don’t talk to me. You make me sick with your nonsense.”
“I don’t want to talk, I never want to talk about it, but you drag me into these discussions,” Bridget cried hopelessly. “I’m not talking about social position,—that isn’t what I mean.” She paused, and then moved restlessly in her chair.
“Mother,” she said, turning to her appealingly, “don’t let us discuss these things so much. We never understand one another, and it leads to so much unhappiness.” Her voice trembled.
“Unhappiness! Yes, you may very well say so,” repeated Mrs. Ruan, sobbing.
“It’s all very well for you to sit there and cry,” broke in her husband furiously. “Who badgered me from morning till night about this girl’s education, eh? If only you’d listened to me, we wouldn’t ’ave had any of this ’umbug. I suppose she’s got some new-fangled ideas into ’er ’ed, that it isn’t necessary or becoming nowadays to please the men. But I’ll tell yer what it is, my girl,” he continued, turning to Bridget, “unless you want to be a miserable old maid you’ll ’ave to brisk up, and not be so stand-off. What men like is a nice bright girl that’ll listen to ’em with a smilin’ face, that can rattle off a bit of lively music to cheer them up when they’re dull. I don’t mean the sort of rubbish you play, but—”
“Father, I’ve told you often that I learnt quite a different sort of music at school. I can’t help it that Mr. Jenkins doesn’t like classical music. You sent me to school, and now you’re vexed because—”