We steamed into Singapore and I showed her the old Boldero, that was to be our home, laid against the Copra Wharf, waiting to be turned into an ark. The animals weren't all collected and we had a day or two to chase about and enjoy ourselves; but she wasn't for expensive pleasures.
"Wait," she said, "till you're a little tired of me; but now, when we're happy just to be together walking in the dust, what's the use of disbursing?"
"If we save till I'm tired of you," says I, "we'll be rich."
"Rich it is, then," said she, "for those who will need it more."
"But," says I, "the dictionary says that a skunk is a man that economizes on his honey-moon."
"If you're bound to blow yourself," says she, "let's trot down to the Hongkong-Shanghai Bank and buy some shares in something."
"But," says I, "you have no engagement ring."
"And I'm not engaged," says she. "I'm a married woman."
"You're a married child."
"My husband's arm around my waist is my ring," says she; "his heart is my jewel."