Part 12 (1/2)

”Nor I then,” said he.

”Hets! eat, I tell ye.”

He replied by putting a bit to her heavenly mouth.

”Ye're awfu' opinionated,” said she, with a countenance that said nothing should induce her, and eating it almost contemporaneously.

”Put plenty sugar,” added she, referring to the Chinese infusion; ”mind, I hae a sweet tooth.”

”You have a sweet set,” said he, approaching another morsel.

They showed themselves by way of smile, and confirmed the accusation.

”Aha! lad,” answered she; ”they've been the death o' mony a herrin'!”

”Now, what does that mean in English, Christie?”

”My grinders--(a full stop.)

”Which you approve--(a full stop.)

”Have been fatal--(a full stop.)

”To many fishes!”

Christie prided herself on her English, which she had culled from books.

Then he made her drink from the cup, and was ostentatious in putting his lips to the same part of the brim.

Then she left the table, and inspected all things.

She came to his drawers, opened one, and was horror-struck.

There were coats and trousers, with their limbs interchangeably intertwined, waistcoats, s.h.i.+rts, and cigars, hurled into chaos.

She instantly took the drawer bodily out, brought it, leaned it against the tea-table, pointed silently into it, with an air of majestic reproach, and awaited the result.

”I can find whatever I want,” said the unblus.h.i.+ng bachelor, ”except money.”

”Siller does na bide wi' slovens! hae ye often siccan a gale o' wind in your drawer?”

”Every day! Speak Englis.h.!.+”

”Aweel! How _do_ you _do?_ that's Ennglis.h.!.+ I daur say.”

”Jolly!” cried he, with his mouth full. Christie was now folding up and neatly arranging his clothes.

”Will you ever, ever be a painter?”

”I am a painter! I could paint the Devil pea-green!”