“It's all very nice making fun of a man when he's standing like a soaked sponge,” said he; “but I tell you what, Mrs. Morris, the devil a Saxon would do it. It's not in them to risk a sore-throat or a pain in the back for the prettiest woman that ever stepped.”
“I have just said so, but not so emphatically, perhaps; and, what is more, I feel all the force of the homage as I look at you.”
“Well, laugh away,” said he. “When a woman has pretty teeth or good legs, she does n't want much provocation to show them. But if we are to stay any time here, could n't we have a bit of fire?”
“You shall come down to the kitchen presently, and have both food and fire; for I'm sure there's something left, though we 've just dined.”
“Dined?—where?”
“Well, eaten, if you like the word better; and perhaps it is the more fitting phrase. I took my plate amongst these poor people, and I assure you there was a carrot soup by no means bad. Sir William's chef would have probably taken exception to the garlic, which was somewhat in excess, and there was a fishy flavor, also slightly objectionable. They called it 'baccala.'”
“Faith, you beat me entirely!” exclaimed O'Shea. “I can't make you out at all, at all.”
“I assure you,” resumed she, “it was quite refreshing to dine with people who ate heartily, and never said an ill word of their neighbors. I regret very much that you were not of the party.”
“Thanks for the politeness, but I don't exactly concur with the regret.”
“I see that this wetting has spoiled your temper. It is most unfortunate for me that the weather should have broken just as I wanted you to be in the very best of humors, and with the most ardent desire to serve me.”