“Little merriment in a sandwich, to my thinking.”
“Why, so there isn’t. ’Tis a poor substitute for the stomach.”
“A very poor substitute. A man might better own a bread-basket.”
But that was too much for Mrs. Davis. She bridled, instantly offended.
“You vulgar beast! I’ll have you know I’m not to be spoken to like that, curse you!”
There is nothing more incommensurable, to be sure, than the particular standards of decorum which obtain with people of Mrs. Moll’s station—now as then.
Chesterfield’s eyebrows went up; he shook with a little inward laughter.
“Why,” says he, “I’m all amazement! ’Twas but a façon de parler; or, as we call it, a figure of speech.”
“Well, you can keep that part of speech’s figure to yourself.”
“I will; though I’ve got enough of my own. Come—forgive my offence. What were we discussing? Sandwiches?”