wurruld, am I not? ('Ye are not,' says I.) I'm wan iv th' kindest iv
mortals,' he says, 'but put me in th' same house with Saint Jerome,' he
says, 'an' there'd be at laste wan day in th' month whin I'd answer his
last wurrd be slammin' th' dure behind me,' he says. 'Man is nachrally a
fightin' an quarrelin' animal with his wife. Th' soft answer don't
always turn away wrath. Sometimes it makes it worse,' he says. 'Th'
throuble about divoorce is it always lets out iv th' bad bargain th' wan
that made it bad. If I owned a half in a payin' business with ye, I'd
niver let th' sun go down on a quarrel,' he says. 'But if ye had a bad
mouth I'd go into coort an' wriggle out iv th' partnership because ye'ar
a cantankerous old villain that no wan cud get on with,' he says. 'If
people knew they cudden't get away fr'm each other they'd settle down to
life, just as I detarmined to like coal smoke whin I found th'
collection wasn't big enough to put a new chimbley in th' parish house.
I've acchally got to like it,' he says. 'There ain't anny condition iv
human life that's not endurable if ye make up ye'er mind that ye've got
to endure it,' he says. 'Th' throuble with the rich,' he says, 'is this,
that whin a rich man has a perfectly nachral scrap with his beloved over
breakfast, she stays at home an' does nawthin' but think about it, an'
he goes out an' does nawthin but think about it, an' that afthernoon
they're in their lawyers' office,' he says. 'But whin a poor gintleman
an' a poor lady fall out, the poor lady puts all her anger into rubbin'
th' zinc off th' wash-boord an' th' poor gintleman aises his be
murdhrin' a slag pile with a shovel, an' be th' time night comes
ar-round he says to himself: Well, I've got to go home annyhow, an'
it's no use I shud be onhappy because I'm misjudged, an' he puts a
pound iv candy into his coat pocket an' goes home an' finds her
standin' at th' dure with a white apron on an' some new ruching ar-round
her neck,' he says.