"I hope you're not upset about it," he said.
"Upset!" she exclaimed, with a sound of bitterness in her tone.
"Yes. I know you never approved of the idea!"
"It doesn't make any difference whether I approve or not, does it?..."
"That's not a fair way to put it, ma!"
"But it amounts to that all the same," she retorted. "No, John, I'm not upset. What would be the good? I had other hopes for you, but they weren't your hopes, and I daresay you're right. I daresay you are. After all, we ... we have to ... to do the best we can for ourselves ... haven't we?"
"Yes, ma!"
"And if you think you can do better in London ... or America nor you can in Ballyards ... well, you're right to ... to go, aren't you?"
"That's what I think, ma!" John answered.
She did not say any more, and he sat at the table, tapping on it with a pencil. There was no sound in the kitchen but the ticking of the clock and the noise of the water boiling in the kettle and the little tap, tap ... tap, tap ... tap, tap, tap ... of his pencil on the table. Mrs. MacDermott had been hemming a handkerchief when John entered the kitchen, and as he glanced at her now, he saw that her head was bent over it again. He looked at her for a long while, it seemed to him, but she did not raise her head to return his look. If she would only rebuke him for wishing to go ... but this awful silence!...