women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men’s minds similarly occupied.”
“Of course—of course,” assented Malone; “but never mind them.” And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught, and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.
“Mr. Malone,” said he, “you must require refreshment after your wet walk; I forget hospitality.”
“Not at all,” rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.
“It is my fancy,” said he, “to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman; I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow.—Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton-chop?”
“Try me: I’ve done it hundreds of times at college.”
“There’s a dishful, then, and there’s the gridiron. Turn them quickly; you know the secret of keeping the juices in?”
“Never fear me—you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please.”
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied
