“Well, seeing that I can barely keep myself,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “no.”
“Marry Miss Pavey, then,” chuckled the old man, maliciously. “Sweet creature. False teeth, false hair, false ways, false voice—falsetto. Lovely woman. See what a dresser she is. What a useful piece of furniture for a house.”
“Marry her yourself,” said Geoffrey; “you are an old bachelor.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the old man. “But look here, sir. My niece!”
“Still harping on my daughter.”
“No, I’m not, Polonius Junior; but upon my niece. You say she don’t go out to meet you.”
“No, she does not.”
“Then don’t be civil to her. Marriage is folly. My brother married Jane Mullion there, and she worried his life out with being so stupid, and then he died and left her and her child paupers.”
“Hang that word!” cried Geoffrey, warmly. “How I do hate it.”
“Then don’t go and make a race of paupers,” said the old man. “Bah! A young fellow has his work cut out in life, and starts on his journey by sticking a load of woman on his back. Then she sticks a load of baby on her back, and most likely goes on banging children all over him till the burthen gets too heavy to be borne, when the poor wretch breaks down and dies. Look at me, sir. I never married; but saved enough to live on, and keep other people. Follow my example.”