"Good for you, my dear! Stand us a drain for luck, since you're so civil!"
He returned:
"I would if I'd got the tin! I believe I'm poorer than you are!"
"S'welp me bob! wot 'ave we 'ere? A haristocrat in distress, har yer?" she demanded.
"Not quite," he told her, as she turned the ponderous batteries of her raillery upon him. "I've seen an aristocrat in distress to-day, and he was worse than me. I'd not change!"
"Fer ten thousand jimmies hannual hincome, an' a 'ouse at Number One 'Yde Park Corner!" she jeered. "'Ow did yer lose the I'm-so-funny?—for if you 'aven't it now, you 'ave 'ad it, I'll tyke me Davy!"
"It's—a long story! Good-bye!"
He nodded and was moving on, when she shot out a gaunt hand and clutched him by the sleeve, crying:
"'Old 'ard, Mister! 'Ang on till I give this 'ere squealer to its mammy. About due now, she ought to be!"
"Isn't it..." His surprised look tickled the relict of the blown-up husband into a chuckle.