“A peep be’ind the scenes,” chirped the barmaid; “read a book called that once. Mr. Grice this ‘ouse is respeckable. If you ain’t careful you’ll get chucked h’out.”
Mr. Somp looked deeply shocked. “That ain’t no subjeck to mention before ladies—birth ain’t a matter ter be discussed in publick. It ‘appens to h’all of us, but people as is well brought h’up tries to ferget it.”
Glancing round and seeing that opinion was against him, Mr. Grace retreated a step in the argument. “You said as h’I came in on the second h’act. As ‘ow?”
“H’after I’d h’arsked yer darter and she’d said ‘yus.’ In ‘igh society h’it’s considered perlite to h’arsk the purmission o’ the parent.”
“‘Igh society be blowed. Pooh!”
“Well, and ‘avn’t I been purmoted?” said Mr. Somp importantly, scenting an affront.
Mr. Grace was surprised into an expression of astonishment. Then, in an effort to recover lost ground, “Wot mug purmoted you?” To the barmaid he said, “H’I’ll be King’s jockey if h’I wite long enough.”
Mr. Somp swelled out his chest. “H’I got purmotion fer nabbin’ that bloke Waffles. Wot d’yer sye ter me proposal now?”
An audience of tap-room loafers had gathered; there was a reputation to be won. “H’I sye wot h’I’ve awready said. H’I’m a better man than you are and me darter’s better.”
“In wot respeck?” Mr. Somp was tenacious.