After Supper.
C. (with emotion.) Loo' at that now, ain't that a sight to make a man o' you? All these brit 'appy young faces. I could play for 'em all ni'—blesh their 'arts! Lor, what a rickety chair I'm on, and thish bloomin' brash inshtrumen's gone and changed ends. Now then, quicken up, let 'em 'ave it—you are a shulky young chap!
P. It is not sulks but misery. I swear to you, Cornet, that each hammer I strike vibrates on my own heart-strings!
C. Then you can be innerpennant of a pianner.
P. I am young—but the young have their sorrows, I suppose. Is it nothing to have to minister to others' gaiety with a bitter pang in one's own breast?
C. Thash wha' comes o'shtickin' to the leminade!
A Little Later.
P. (aghast). I say, what are you about? You mustn't, you know!
C. (smiling dreamily). It'sh all ri', dear boy! If a man fines he can't breathe in 'sh bootsh—on'y loshical coursh 'fore him is to play in socksh—d'ye see?
At Parting.