"That's because I'm here," said Mr. Sharp. "If it had been Jack Butler
she'd have been down fast enough."

"It couldn't be him," said Mr. Culpepper, "because I won't have 'im in
the house. I've told him so; I've told her so, and I've told 'er aunt
so. And if she marries without my leave afore she's thirty she loses the
seven hundred pounds 'er father left her. You've got plenty of time--ten
years."

Mr. Sharp, sitting with his hands between his knees, gazed despondently
at the floor. "There's a lot o' girls would jump at me," he remarked.
"I've only got to hold up my little finger and they'd jump."

"That's because they've got sense," said Mr. Culpepper. "They've got the
sense to prefer steadiness and humdrumness to good looks and dash. A
young fellow like you earning thirty-two-and-six a week can do without
good looks, and if I've told Florrie so once I have told her fifty
times."

"Looks are a matter of taste," said Mr. Sharp, morosely. "Some of them
girls I was speaking about just now--"

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Culpepper, hastily. "Now, look here; you go on a
different tack. Take a glass of ale like a man or a couple o' glasses;
smoke a cigarette or a pipe. Be like other young men. Cut a dash, and
don't be a namby-pamby. After you're married you can be as miserable as
you like."

Mr. Sharp, after a somewhat lengthy interval, thanked him.