Mary. Now, Widgy, dear—— Oh, good gracious, what a love of a waistcoat you’ve on! Let me look at it, do? Well, it’s a real beauty.
Wid. Stylish, eh? The last Paris touch.
Mary. You used not to wear such waistcoats as that when you lived in Fuller’s Rents.
Wid. Oh, no, no! Ha, ha! (Aside.) I wish she’d cut Fuller’s Rents.
Mary. Do you know, Widgy, I don’t think you’re at all improved since you fell in for that fortune, by a legacy you never expected. When you lived in Fuller’s Rents you used to walk out with me on a Sunday. You never walk with me at all now.
Wid. Walking’s vulgar, my dear.
Mary. And you sometimes used to take me at half-price to the theatres.
Wid. Theatres is low, my dear.
Mary. And you remember how we used to go together to Greenwich, with a paper of ham sandwiches in my basket, and sit under the trees in the park, and talk, and laugh—law! how we used to laugh to be sure!—and then you used to talk of love and constancy and connubial felicitude in a little back parlour, and a heap of beautiful things.