"Oh, I know she's not the kind of girl you admire," said Stephen, in rather a nettled tone. "You wouldn't look at a saloon-keeper's daughter simply because she is a saloon-keeper's daughter; you like a girl in your own rank, all grace and dignity and good manners, and awfully clever and intellectual, and gifted and educated, and all that."
Talbot merely laughed and remained silent, a habit he had which successfully baffled questions, innuendoes, and suppositions alike.
"And any way your passions are engaged somehow, somewhere."
"How do you know that?" asked Talbot, with a hardening of his mouth.
"Know it! why, otherwise you could not lead this dog's life as you do, and you could not be indifferent to a beautiful girl like Katrine,—for she is beautiful, she's not 'pretty' or 'nice,' but she's downright beautiful," returned Stephen, emphasising his remarks by striking the table.
Talbot said nothing, but put more wood in the stove in silence.
"Your supper is ready now; if you are famished, as you said, you'd better have it, and discuss Miss Poniatovsky afterwards," he remarked.
Stephen turned to the table. "Won't you have something too?" he said.
Talbot shook his head. "No, thanks; I'm not hungry."
"You ascetic creature, you never are," replied Stephen, as he began to carve into the cold bacon.