"Sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. Do ye think
blanks loike me ought to exist? Whoy don't they kill us off?
Palliatives--palliatives--and whoy? Because they object to th' extreme
course. Look at women: the streets here are a scandal to the world. They
won't recognise that they exist--their noses are so dam high! They blink
the truth in this middle-class counthry. My bhoy"--and he whispered
confidentially--"ut pays 'em. Eh? you say, why shouldn't they, then?"
(But Shelton had not spoken.) "Well, let'em! let 'em! But don't tell
me that'sh morality, don't tell me that'sh civilisation! What can you
expect in a counthry where the crimson, emotions are never allowed to
smell the air? And what'sh the result? My bhoy, the result is sentiment,
a yellow thing with blue spots, like a fungus or a Stilton cheese. Go to
the theatre, and see one of these things they call plays. Tell me, are
they food for men and women? Why, they're pap for babes and shop-boys! I
was a blanky actor moyself!"

Shelton listened with mingled feelings of amusement and dismay, till the
old actor, having finished, resumed his crouching posture at the table.

"You don't get dhrunk, I suppose?" he said suddenly--"too much of 'n
Englishman, no doubt."

"Very seldom," said Shelton.

"Pity! Think of the pleasures of oblivion! Oi 'm dhrunk every night."

"How long will you last at that rate?"

"There speaks the Englishman! Why should Oi give up me only pleasure
to keep me wretched life in? If you've anything left worth the keeping