“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.

“It’s my birthday next Wednesday,” continued Mr. Culpepper, regarding him benevolently; “come round about seven, and I’ll ask you to stay to supper.  That’ll give you a chance.  Anybody’s allowed to step a bit over the mark on birthdays, and you might take a glass or two and make a speech, and be so happy and bright that they’d ’ardly know you.  If you want an excuse for calling, you could bring me a box of cigars for my birthday.”

“Or come in to wish you ‘Many Happy Returns of the Day,’” said the thrifty Mr. Sharp.

“And don’t forget to get above yourself,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him sternly; “in a gentlemanly way, of course.  Have as many glasses as you like—­there’s no stint about me.”

“If it ever comes off,” said Mr. Sharp, rising—­“if I get her through you, you shan’t have reason to repent it.  I’ll look after that.”

Mr. Culpepper, whose feelings were a trifle ruffled, said that he would “look after it too.”  He had a faint idea that, even from his own point of view, he might have made a better selection for his niece’s hand.

Mr. Sharp smoked his first cigarette the following morning, and, encouraged by the entire absence of any after-effects, purchased a pipe, which was taken up by a policeman the same evening for obstructing the public footpath in company with a metal tobacco-box three parts full.

In the matter of ale he found less difficulty.  Certainly the taste was unpleasant, but, treated as medicine and gulped down quickly, it was endurable.  After a day or two he even began to be critical, and on Monday evening went so far as to complain of its flatness to the wide-eyed landlord of the “Royal George.”

“Too much cellar-work,” he said, as he finished his glass and made for the door.

“Too much!  ’Ere, come ’ere,” said the landlord, thickly.  “I want to speak to you.”

The expert shook his head, and, passing out into, the street, changed colour as he saw Miss Garland approaching.  In a blundering fashion he clutched at his hat and stammered out a “Good evening.”

Miss Garland returned the greeting and, instead of passing on, stopped and, with a friendly smile, held out her hand.  Mr. Sharp shook it convulsively.

“You are just the man I want to see,” she exclaimed.  “Aunt and I have been talking about you all the afternoon.”

Mr. Sharp said “Really!”

“But I don’t want uncle to see us,” pursued Miss Garland, in the low tones of confidence.  “Which way shall we go?”