"You see," he said, "when you have lots to do you can't keep up with your books: which is the reason why I never pretend to read—I have no time."
"You might find a little time. I have seen you look very much bored, and complain that there was nothing to do."
"Never when you were there, Nell, that I'll answer for—but of course there are times when a fellow isn't doing anything much. What would you have me read? There's always the Sporting and Dramatic, you know, the Pink 'un, and a few more."
"Oh, Phil! you don't call them literature, I hope."
"I don't know much about what you call literature. There's Ruff, and Hoyle, and—I say, Nell, there's a dog-cart going a pace! Who can that be, do you suppose?"
"I don't know all the dog-carts about. I should think it was some one coming from the station."
"Oh!" he said, and made a long pause. "Driving like that, if they don't break their necks, they should be here in ten minutes or so."
"Oh, not for twice that time—the road makes such a round—but there is no reason to suppose that any dog-cart from the station should be coming here."
"Well, to return to the literature, as you call it. I suppose I shall have to get a lot of books for you to keep you amused—eh, Nell? even in the honeymoon."
"We shall not have time to read very much if we are moving about all the time."