“No.”
“It’s not polite,” said Paul, innocently, “to eat all the mutton chops and toast”, Wickam says.
“Wickam,” retorted Mrs Pipchin, colouring, “is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.”
“What’s that?” inquired Paul.
“Never you mind, Sir,” retorted Mrs Pipchin. “Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.”
“If the bull was mad,” said Paul, “how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that story.”
“You don’t believe it, Sir?” repeated Mrs Pipchin, amazed.
“No,” said Paul.
“Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little Infidel?” said Mrs Pipchin.
As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be put down for the present. But he sat turning it over in his mind, with such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs Pipchin presently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject.