"That's so," assented the Optimist cheerfully, but he tucked the tin case of cigarettes away with reverent fingers. "What troubles me," he said confidentially, "is these 'ere pictures. I can't 'ardly take 'em 'ome to my missus and explain—particularly the poser where me arm's aholdin' of 'er waist. Under the banana tree. We got 'em took by a Eurasian mugger wot I'd met."
"Don't you show 'em," warned the Pessimist.
"It ain't a question o' showin," said his friend. "You don't know my missus. She's a-meetin' me at Waterloo and if she don't turn out me pockets in the station she'll do it in the bus."
"My 'ole Umbrella is meetin' me too," said the Pessimist, "and she'll find me all ready to tell 'er that 'ere is the fust petticoat I've brushed agin' for a twelve-month. So don't you go suggestin' nothin' different, in a pally way, if you do 'appen to be near."
"Let's 'ope your pockets'll bear you out if I do," said the Optimist.
The Philosopher shifted his position and leant forward. "You take my tip, 'ole love," he said impressively to the Optimist. "Jes' you wipe out that lil yaller gal. She's in safer 'ands than yours now and you can't git at 'er with cigarette smoke, nor nothin' else. You tear them photographs right now and put them out of the winder. It ain't no good explainin' 'em to a woman—least of all to one wiv marriage lines. I know, 'cos once I tried it on. My old missus is one of them earnest Christians wot do a lot more forgivin' than forgettin', and 'er forgivin' of me 'as been more'n I can bear for the last five years. Now, whenever we 'as words, I git the wust of it straight off, owin' to the 'andle I giv' 'er agin' me. You all of you poke fun at me for bein' quiet-like, but if you'd seed my missus, or 'eard 'er, you'd know where I got the 'abit of 'oldin' me tongue. I go on tip-toe now when there's a gal around 'oo suits me."
The Optimist gazed at him admiringly.
"You're deep," he announced with conviction.
"Nothin' in me pockets or in me kit," wound up the Philosopher, "is nothin' on me conscience or on me wife's, and no bustin' of the 'appy 'ome. You wipe that lil Frangipani off the slate and forgit the stink o' them flowers."
The Optimist shuffled the photographs thoughtfully.