‘Women, after all, gentlemen,’ said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, ‘are the great props and comforts of our existence.’
‘So they are,’ said the placid gentleman.
‘When they’re in a good humour,’ interposed the dirty-faced man.
‘And that’s very true,’ said the placid one.
‘I repudiate that qualification,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were fast reverting to Emily Wardle. ‘I repudiate it with disdain—with indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women, and I boldly declare he is not a man.’ And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.
‘That’s good sound argument,’ said the placid man.
‘Containing a position which I deny,’ interrupted he of the dirty countenance.
‘And there’s certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too, Sir,’ said the placid gentleman.
‘Your health, Sir,’ said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.
Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.