At this point of the conversation Martin stuck fast: he did not know Rosalind’s recipe [29] for the difficulty a man feels, when he finds himself gravelled for conversation with his mistress; so he merely scratched his head, and thought hard to find what he’d say next. I doubt whether the conviction, which was then strong on his mind, that Meg was listening at the keyhole to every word that passed, at all assisted him in the operation. At last, some Muse came to his aid, and he made out another sentence. “It was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn’t it?” “’Deed it was: your mother was a very good woman to me that morning, anyhow.” “And tell me now, Anty, do you like the inn?” “’Deed I do—but it’s quare, like.” “How quare?” “Why, having Meg and Jane here: I wasn’t ever used to anyone to talk to, only just the servants.” “You’ll have plenty always to talk to now—eh, Anty?” and Martin tried a sweet look at his lady love. “I’m shure I don’t know. Av’ I’m only left quiet, that’s what I most care about.” “But, Anty, tell me—you don’t want always to be what you call quiet?” “Oh! but I do—why not?” “But you don’t mane, Anty, that you wouldn’t like to have some kind of work to do—some occupation, like?” “Why, I wouldn’t like to be idle; but a person needn’t be idle because they’re quiet.” “And that’s thrue, Anty.” And Martin broke down again. “There’d be a great crowd in chapel, I suppose?” said Anty. “There was a great crowd.” “And what was father Geoghegan preaching about?” “Well, then, I didn’t mind. To tell the truth, Anty, I came out most as soon as the preaching began; only I know he told the boys to pray that the liberathor might be got out of his throubles; and so they should—not that there’s much to throuble him, as far as the verdict’s concerned.” “Isn’t there then? I thought they made him out guilty?” “So they did, the false ruffians: but what harum ’ll that do? they daren’t touch a hair of his head!” Politics, however, are not a favourable introduction to love-making: so Martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that he might find something better. “What a fool the man is!” thought Meg to herself, at the door—“if I had a lover went on like that, wouldn’t I pull his ears!” Martin got up—walked across the room—looked out of the little window—felt very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himself down on the sofa. “Anty,” he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; “Were you thinking of what I was spaking to you about before I went to Dublin?” Anty blushed also, now. “About what?” she said. “Why, just about you and me making a match of it. Come, Anty, dear, what’s the good of losing time? I’ve been thinking of little else; and, after what’s been between us, you must have thought the matther over too, though you do let on to be so innocent. Come, Anty, now that you and mother’s so thick, there can be nothing against it.”