She comes away. I am triumphant. But she turns round and cries, "This gentleman as is a gentleman says I ain't to lower meself by talkin' to a 'ound like you."
I move on. I doubt if the fishmonger will be pleased by the lady's representation of my few words, and I make a mental note to keep away from his stall. All at once another lady, who for some obscure reason is carrying a bucket, grips me by the arm.
"I'm goin' to 'ave the law on my side, I am," she declares emphatically, "an' then I'll smash 'is bloomin' fice in."
I am swayed towards a fruit-stall.
"Look at them," says the irate lady, holding out three potatoes. "Rotten—at thrippence a pound. My 'usband 'e'd 'ave set abaht me if I'd give 'im them for 'is dinner."
The fruiterer takes a lofty moral standard. "I sold yer them fer seed pertaters, I did. If yer 'usband eats them 'e's worse than a Un."
"Seed pertaters, was they? Where was I to grow 'em? In a mug on the mantelpiece?"
"'Ow was I ter know yer 'adn't a 'lotment?"
"You'll need no 'lotment. It's a cemet'ry you'll want when my 'usband knows you've called 'im a Un."
"Now, now," I interpose tactfully. "Perhaps you can exchange them, then you'll have the lady for a regular customer."