Her Trooper. No, it ain't that. It's the reckerlections it 'ud call up. I 'ad a 'ole uncle a pork-butcher, d'ye see, and (with sentiment) many and many a 'appy hour I've spent as a boy——
[He indulges in tender reminiscences.
A Young Clerk (who belongs to a Literary Society, to his Fiancée). It has a wonderfully rural look—quite like a scene in 'Ardy, isn't it?
His Fiancée (who has "no time for reading rubbish"). I daresay; though I've never been there myself.
The Clerk. Never been? Oh, I see. You thought I said Arden—the Forest of Arden, in Shakspeare, didn't you?
His Fiancée. Isn't that where Mr. Gladstone lives, and goes cutting down the trees in?
The Clerk. No; at least it's spelt different. But it was 'Ardy I meant. Far from the Madding Crowd, you know.
His Fiancée (with a vague view to the next Bank Holiday). What do you call "far"—farther than Margate?
[Her companion has a sense of discouragement.
An Artisan (to a neighbour in broadcloth and a whitechoker). It's wonderful 'ow they can go so close without 'urtin' of 'em, ain't it?