"Yes, laugh at me," she said, bitterly. "Laugh at her mother, an old
woman now, alone in the world--the mother that risked her life for the
child you are taking with a laugh--"
"I beg your pardon," said Dave. "I was not laughing at you, but at the
very great aversion in which you hold anyone who has at one time
followed the profession of a cowboy. As one who was born practically
with a lariat in his hand I claim the liberty of being amused at that
aversion. I've known many of the cow punching trade, and a good few
others, and while the boys are frequently rough they are generally
white--a great deal whiter than their critics--and with sounder respect
for a good woman than I have found in circles that consider themselves
superior. So if you ask me to apologize for the class from which I
come I have only a laugh for your answer. But when you say I have
taken your child thoughtlessly, there you do me an injustice. And when
you speak of being left alone in the world you do both Irene and me an
injustice. And when you call yourself an old woman you do us all an
injustice--"
"You may spare your compliments," said Mrs. Hardy, tartly. "I have no
relish for them. And as for your defence of cow _punchers_, I prefer
gentlemen. Why Irene should wish to throw herself away when there are
men like Mr. Conward--"
"Conward!" interrupted Dave.
"He has the manners of a gentleman," she said, in a tone intended to be
crushing.
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