and she came up to me afterwards simply in flames.  She was wild.  My dear, she has left off crying and started to fight.  Papa Breen (I am afraid he is a bit bumptious for what she calls his class in life) turned the scale, and now she is as implacable as Francie.  She says she will not have the house of Pennycuick disgraced (or words to that effect) while she is alive to prevent it; and when I ask her to be just to Peter, who is no more answerable for his family than I am for mine, and not to judge him off-hand before she knows a scrap about him, she simply looks at me as if she itched to box my ears.  Isn’t it too hard?  Other girls have such a lovely time when they are engaged—­everybody considering them and giving them opportunities to be together.  There’s not going to be anything of that sort for us, I can plainly see.  Well, I shall not give him up, so they need not think it. . . .

“I have seen my poor old boy.  He was much cut up, but feels better now. . . .  He asked me to go and see his mother. . . .The moment I walked in and he said, ‘Mother, here she is,’ the darling opened her arms, and we just hugged as if I was her daughter already.  There is nobody like mothers. . . .

“Papa Breen came home while I was there.  I thought he was going to be aggrieved, but he was not with me.  If it is not a snobbish thing to say, he is rather proud of his son’s choice.  He was a bit too fussy and outspoken, and dear Peter got the fidgets wondering what he would say next; but I did not mind.  He talked about building us a house, but Peter whispered to me that that would take too long, and that already he had one in his eye (I know it—­a lovely place, with the prettiest grounds, and stables, and coach-house, and all).  Nothing is too good for me.  I tried to pacify the girls by telling them I should have a comfortable home; but they seem to think that the vulgarest feature of the whole affair.  It may be, but it’s nice.  Would you condescend to come and stay with a draper’s wife sometimes?  We are going to have Bruce to live with us. . . .

“Then I made Peter come home with me, and I took him in myself to see Deb.  He behaved as nicely as possible, but it was no use.  ’She is of age, Mr Breen,’ says Deb, with that look of hers; ’she will do as she chooses, but she will never do this with my consent.’  And I feel I never shall.  Papa Breen sticks in her throat.  If only she had seen Peter before his father came, and not after!  But I daresay it would have been the same.  They are too eaten up with their prejudices to begin to know him. . . .