Mr. L. S. Oh, is that it? Well, I can make out the upper part of a weighing machine over your shoulder, but I can't say I discover any particular sentiment attached to that.
Mrs. L. S. (impatiently). Oh, if you choose to sneer at everything, of course you can, but it's looking at things like these that makes us the loyal nation we are, Lavender!
Mr. L. S. My dear Mimosa, I give you my solemn word that if I remain opposite those Chippendale bookcases ten minutes longer I shall become a gibbering anarchist! Surely we can be loyal without such a painful resemblance to a box of dried figs.
[Mrs. L. S. shudders at these revolutionary sentiments.
A New Comer (arriving with a friend, and craning curiously over the shoulders of the spectators in posse, to their intense indignation). 'Ere they are, Joe. I can see a lot o' silver inkstands. We'll get a view if we shove in 'ere.
[He attempts to edge through the double rank.
The Purple-faced Old Gentleman. I protest against your pushing in here, Sir. We're hot enough already without that. It's monstrously unfair!
The New Comer. I s'pose I've got as much right to see the bloomin' Presents as what you 'ave?
The P.-f. O. G. You've no right to push in out of your turn, Sir. You must take your proper place down at the end of the queue and wait, like everybody else.
The New Comer. What, all the way down there, and 'ow long might I have to wait, now?