“She’s a h’orator as yer’ll soon find h’out if yer marry ‘er.”
The policeman gazed at the cabman sombrely. “That don’t mike ‘er no better; h’it mikes ‘er wuss. H’I’ve found that h’out. It’s my h’opinion that wimen should be seen and not ‘eard.”
“So yer’ve found it h’out, ‘ave yer?” Into Mr. Grace’s voice had crept a sudden warmth of fellow-feeling and friendliness.
“Ter my regret,” sighed Grace’s policeman, wagging a mournful head. “If I’d knowed before h’I got ter love ‘er—— Ah, well! It don’t mend matters ter talk abart it.”
Mr. Grace heaved himself off the bench. “Shike ‘ands, old pal; yer goin’ ter suffer.”
Mr. Somp gloomily accepted the proffered hand, looking at the barmaid. “H’I’m afraid I h’am.”
“Then why not taik me?” asked the barmaid cheerily.
“And why not? That’s the question. My dear, you might mike me suffer wuss.”
“And I mightn’t ‘ave you,” she said coyly. “Any’ow, Mr. Somp had no sympathy with the Salvation Army old top, try me next. Yours truly, Gertie, h’always ready ter oblige a friend.”
It was the day after the honeymoon, which had consisted of a steamer-trip to Greenwich, that Mr. Somp confided to Mr. Grace, “Too much religion abart your gel.” At that hour Mr. Somp and Grace’s father became friends.