"How do you do, Mrs. Malone?" said he, courteously.
"So am I, Mrs. Malone. We are twins in that respect. Me teeth are chattering as you can see-e-e-e!"
"I 'll have thot rint now, you blaggard."
"Shall I come and give it to you, Mrs. Malone? Oh, Lord, it is freezing to death I am."
"I hope you are; when you die you 'll git a change," answered Mrs. Malone, sitting down by the table, decisively.
"I 'll sit right here till I git me rint, Tom Moore."
"Thot I will, you water t'rowing spalpeen."
"I said come back when I am dressed, did n't I? Well, I 'm _not_ dressed, am I?"
"How should I know?" observed Mrs. Malone, loudly, meanwhile mopping her neck with her handkerchief.
"Well," responded the poet, "you _will_ know, if you don't get out of here mighty quick, I can tell you. I 'll not be turned into a lump of ice for any old lady, Irish or no Irish. Whe-ee! Oh-h-h! G-r-r-r-h! When I get into the market the price of ice will drop a penny a pound."
"I wants me rint," reiterated the landlady, quite unconcerned as to her lodger's personal temperature.
"Do you think I have it in the tub with me?" demanded Moore, growing desperate.
"I 've no doubt you have as much of it there as anywhere," replied Mrs. Malone, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head.
"I 'll give you till I count twenty to quit the premises."
"Twenty or twenty t'ousand is just the same to me, Mr. Moore."
"Then you have no head for figures, Mrs. Malone?"
"Well, there is one figure you 'll know more about if you don't skip, and that is the one of Thomas Moore, Esquire."
"All right, Mrs. Malone. My frozen blood be upon your head. No, by St. Patrick, I 'll not ice myself even to oblige you. Out you go, my lady. One--two--three. Will you go?"
"Twelve--thirteen--sixteen-- Now are you ready?"
"Oh-h!" cried Mrs. Malone, intimidated at last by the poet's determination, "I will, Misther Moore, I will."
And gathering up her skirts she rushed for the door, reaching it just as Buster entered, the collision sending that young gentleman sprawling on the floor.
"Thank ye very kindly, ma'am," he remarked, saluting her in military fashion from his lowered altitude.
"Thot for your t'anks," she sniffed, and made her exit, signifying her scorn and dissatisfaction by the vigor with which she shut the door.