“We should probably be here for three weeks,” he observed.
“Then you’re not playing in the town?”
“No; rehearsing.”
“That’s a pity, ’cause I’d ’ave asked for a seat Friday. ’Sides, if you’re r’hearsing, it’s unlikely you’d be able to afford twenty-five.”
“We could afford a great deal more,” said Eliphalet, with a touch of silly pride. “But one does not pay more than a penny for a penny bun.”
“But even then you may get a stale one,” replied Emma philosophically. “Well, I should think twenty-five shillings ’ud be enough, then. ’Tis enough, as a matter of fac’—plenty.”
“Very well; we will leave it at that.”
“All right. I ’spec’ she’ll raise a rare to-do about it, but one can’t help that. Pity she wasn’t ’ome ’erself—but there, it’s Saturday, and you know what that means! ’Ave you ’ad your dinners?”
“No,” said Mornice; “and we’re dreadfully hungry.”
“Well, I suppose a chop each ’ud do, for liver’s very dear, and I don’t suppose you want to spend much.”