Peter threw himself into a creaking wicker-chair. “That’s not difficult; it’s chiefly a matter of clothes.”
“And accent,” the Faun Man added; “refined speech is the soap and water of good manners.”
Peter chuckled. “Then don’t tub.”
The Faun Man stood up and stretched himself. “I haven’t. I’ve written a love-lyric that never saw a nailbrush. It’s called The Belle of Shoreditch. When I’ve sung it to you I’ll tell you why I wrote it. Isn’t this a ripping tune?” He tinkled it over; then sat down crosslegged on the floor and commenced to drawl the words out:
“My bloke’s a moke
And ‘e cawn’t tell me why;
But the fust time ‘e spoke
‘Twas no more than a sigh.
Says I, ‘Don’t mind me; we’ll soon be dead.’
Says ‘e, ‘If yer dies, I’ll break me ‘ead.’