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Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 79, Issue 305, 26 December 1936, Page 13

The Brute. Robinson, a meek little man, had taken his wife to the pictures. Suddenly she gripped his arm. “Horace," she whispered, “is your seat comfortable?" “Er—quite comfortable, my dear," mumbled the litle man in some surprise. “And you have a good view of the screen unhindered by that person wearing that enormous hat?" she went on. “I can see perfectly," he said. “You aren't worried by the horrid draught from the exit door by the smell of foul tobacco smoke?" “Not in the slightest, my love." “Then change seats with me, you selfish little worm!" Perfectly Clear. Brown was calling on an old friend. “I declare," he remarked to his friend’s wife, “it quite cures me of home sickness to drop in here and see a little of your home life—er—er—not that your home life is anything but the—what I mean to say is that it makes me all the fonder of my own home—or, rather, that, on the homoeopathic principle, a hair of the Gog that bit you—which isn't, of course, what I mean. But when a man is lonely he can enjoy the society of almost anybody— ’’ “Sir!" said the wife, icily.

“I mean," returned Brown, as he mopped the perspiration from his face, “that be it ever so humble—no, no, yours is not that—but there’s no place like one’s own—but, I mean—well. I really must be going! Goodday!”