Biddy was saying: 'Oh, but you're as bad as that sort of person who
can't be made to realise that the oldest peerage in Ireland counts for
nothing in comparison with an oil-king's millions and being able to
entertain the right set. . . . And besides, really Mr McKeith, there's
no difference at all between us. You talk such a lot about YOUR
grandfather having been a Scotch peasant. Why! MY mother's father was
an Italian beggar--Ugh! haven't you seen them with their crutches and
things on the steps of the churches?--And my mother sang in the
streets of Naples until a kind musician heard her and had her trained
to be a opera singer.'

'Your mother?'

'My mother! That's where my CARMEN comes from--only that my voice, I'm
told, isn't to be compared with what hers was. . . . But that's not the
worst about my mother. Not that I blame her. I think that a woman has a
perfect right to leave her husband if she has ceased to care for him,
and that it's far more moral to live with a man you love and can't
marry, than with a husband you hate.'

Mrs Gildea cut short Lady Bridget's exposition of her views on morality
before McKeith had time to answer. Her voice was sharp as she went up
the steps and arraigned the pair.

'Really, Biddy, I do call this too bad of you. May I ask how you and Mr
McKeith come to be drinking tea together in my veranda?'

'Sure, and it's by accident intoirely,' answered Biddy, with a
whimsical look and the touch of the brogue she sometimes put on when a
situation became embarrassing.