ham-and-beef shop, as you turn down to the Barbican. That's her
conscientiousness, instead of sitting at home and living on her
parents. Don't tell me that women--by which I mean some women--ain't
the equals of men.

"Because," continued Mr. Goodfellow, after a pause, "I know better.
Ever been to Plymouth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Live there?"

"No, sir."

He seemed to be disappointed.

"You go past the bottom of Treville Street, and there the shop is,
slap in front of you. You can't miss it, because it has a
plaster-of-Paris cow in the window, and the proprietor's called
Mudge. I go to Plymouth every week on purpose to see her."

"By coach, sir?" I asked, suddenly interested, and eager to compare
notes with him on the Royal Mail and its rivals, the Self-Defence and
Highflyer.

"Coach? Not a bit of it. Shank's mare, my boy, every step of the
way; and Martha's worth it. That's the best of bein' in love; it
makes you want to do things. By the way," he asked "you ain't
thinkin' to learn the violin, by any chance?"