"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it has burnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."
"I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"
"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"

"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as he turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting. Now you and I, Moore - there's a fine chop for you, full of gravy - you and I will have no grey mares in our stables when we marry."
"I never think about it. If the grey mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"
"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"
