“Oh yes,” admitted Jim; “but my! I don't mind little things like that! Mis' Adkins is only a poor widow woman, and keeping my house nice and not having it smell of tobacco is all she's got. They can talk about women's rights—I feel as if they ought to have them fast enough, if they want them, poor things; a woman has a hard row to hoe, and will have, if she gets all the rights in creation. But I guess the rights they'd find it hardest to give up would be the rights to have men look after them just a little more than they look after other men, just because they are women. When I think of Annie Berry—the girl I was going to marry, you know, if she hadn't died—I feel as if I couldn't do enough for another woman. Lord! I'm glad to sit out in the woodshed and smoke. Mis' Adkins is pretty good-natured to stand all the cats.”
Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning luncheon.
“Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here,” said he, “and mind, Sam, the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and don't forget the East India chutney, Sam.”
“It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with your chops, when you are so fond of it,” remarked Hayward when Sam had gone.
“Mis' Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn't strong enough to nurse.”
“So you have to eat her ketchup?”
“Well, she doesn't put seasoning in it,” admitted Jim. “But Mis' Adkins doesn't like seasoning herself, and I don't mind.”
“And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them.”
“Mis' Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can't get such thick chops well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don't mind.”
“Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather. I know!” said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate force.