'Don't worry. That's how you keep young, ha! ha! Besides, don't have much time to mope in my trade!'
'What's that?' asked Victoria vacuously. Men generally lied as to their occupation, but she had noticed that when their imagination was stimulated their temper improved.
'Inspector of bun-punchers, ha! ha!'
'Bun-punchers?'
'Yes, bun-punchers. South Eastern Railway, you know. Got to have them dated now. New Act of Parliament, ha! ha!'
Victoria laughed, for his cockney joviality was infectious. Then again the room faded and rematerialised as his voice rose and fell.
'The wife don't know I'm out on the tiles, ha! ha! She's in Streatham, looking after the smalls. . . . Oh, no, none of your common or garden brass fenders. . . .'
Victoria pulled herself together. This was what she could not bear. Brutality, the obscene even, were preferable to this dreary trickling of the inane masquerading as wit. Yet she smiled at him.
'You're saucy,' she said. 'You're my fancy to-night.'
A shadow passed over the man's face. Then again he was rattling along.