“Public-house,” said Syd. “How d’ye do, Mr Simpkins?”
“Never you mind how I do, nor how I don’t, young gentleman. You and me’s got to have a few words of a sort.”
“All right, Mr Simpkins,” cried Syd, cheerfully, as he drew back to the full extent of his and his young wife’s joined hands to inspect her in front, and, with the girl’s aid, behind. “Lovely!” he whispered, and the girl flushed with delight, as she kept on tripping, posturing, and dancing, as if trying to draw her husband on into a pas de deux, or a pas de fascination in a ballet, he being apparently quite willing to join in and finish off with another embrace.
“Drop it, Molly,” cried the old man. “Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing!” cried Syd, without turning his head; but he did the next moment. “I say, Sam, don’t she look lovely?”
“Sam, eh? Well, you’re a cool ’un, ’pon my soul!”
“Oh, daddy, don’t!” cried the girl, pettishly.
“But I shall. Here, he marries you without coming to me first with ‘by your leave’ or ‘with your leave.’”
“But hasn’t he come now, daddy? You always used to say you wished you’d got a boy, and now you’ve got one—a beauty. Ain’t you, Syd?”
“Stunner.”