Presently the conversation was switched on to the subject of weddings.
“Some of our folk are getting ‘spliced’ in a week or two in that church yonder,” said one of the women, “but yer know we don’t all get married by the clergyman, whatever clever people may say about it. Many a chal and chi are married in the good old Roman way.”
“And how is that?” I asked, adding, “Just among yourselves, I suppose?”
“Auvli,” she replied, “you takes mande by the vast,—so,”—suiting action to word she placed her hand in my grasp—“and,” she continued, “you pukker to mande tute will always be a tacho Romado and mande pens she’ll be a tacho Romadi to you.”
“So that’s Romipen (marriage),” said I—“and do you consider it binding?”
“Always, prala,” she replied impressively.
“Supposing the man did not think it was, and left you?” I ventured.
“So much the worse for him,” she answered—“for whenever any of my people saw him they’d down him with a cosh.”
“Is that the gypsy law?”