'
'Cooking,' said Winifred, maintaining her point.
'Oh, what a fib, Winifred! These sunburnt fingers may have picked
wild fruits, but they never made a pie in their lives.'
'Never made a pie! I make beautiful pies and things; and when we're
married I'll make your pies--may I, instead of a conceited man-cook?'
'No, Winifred. Never make a pie or do a bit of cooking in _my_ house,
I charge you.'
'Oh, why not?' said Winifred, a shade of disappointment overspreading
her face. 'I suppose it's unladylike to cook.'
'Because,' said I,'once let me taste something made by these tanned
fingers, and how could I ever afterwards eat anything made by a
man-cook, conceited or modest? I should say to that poor cook, "Where
is the Winifred flavour, cook? I don't taste those tanned fingers
here." And then, suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why I
should have to starve, just for want of a little Winifred flavour in
the pie-crust. Now I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't cook.'
'Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow!' shrieked Winifred, in an ecstasy of
delight at this nonsense.
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