“Yes, sir,” replied the barber consolingly, “it makes the skin tender.”
Mistress—“Did the mustard plaster do you any good, Bridget?”
Maid—“Yes; but, begorry, mum, ut do bite the tongue!”
They had just met; conversation was somewhat fitful. Finally he decided to guide it into literary channels, where he was more at home, and, turning to his companion, asked:
“Are you fond of literature?”
“Passionately,” she replied. “I love books dearly.”
“Then you must admire Sir Walter Scott,” he exclaimed with sudden animation. “Is not his ‘Lady of the Lake’ exquisite in its flowing grace and poetic imagery? Is it not—”
“It is perfectly lovely,” she assented, clasping her hands in ecstasy. “I suppose I have read it a dozen times.”