I watched him in a further silence of some minutes.
“Do you, Jellaby,” I then inquired, “really understand how best to treat a sausage?”
“Oh, yes; they’re bound to turn brown soon.”
“But see how obstinately they continue pink. Would it not be wise, considering the lateness, to call my wife and desire her to cook them?”
“What! The Baroness in this wet stubble?” said he, with such energy that I deemed the moment come for the striking of the blow that had been so long impending.
“Do you, Jellaby,” I then inquired, “really understand how best to treat a sausage?”
“When a lady,” I said with great distinctness, “has cooked for fourteen years without interruption—ever since, that is, she was sixteen—one may safely at thirty leave it always in her hands.”
“Monstrous,” said he.