At this point of the conversation Martin stuck fast: he did not know Rosalind’s recipe [29] for the difficulty a man feels, when he finds himself gravelled for conversation with his mistress; so he merely scratched his head, and thought hard to find what he’d say next. I doubt whether the conviction, which was then strong on his mind, that Meg was listening at the keyhole to every word that passed, at all assisted him in the operation. At last, some Muse came to his aid, and he made out another sentence.
“It was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn’t it?”
“’Deed it was: your mother was a very good woman to me that morning, anyhow.”
“And tell me now, Anty, do you like the inn?”
“’Deed I do—but it’s quare, like.”
“How quare?”
“Why, having Meg and Jane here: I wasn’t ever used to anyone to talk to, only just the servants.”
“You’ll have plenty always to talk to now—eh, Anty?” and Martin tried a sweet look at his lady love.
“I’m shure I don’t know. Av’ I’m only left quiet, that’s what I most care about.”
“But, Anty, tell me—you don’t want always to be what you call quiet?”