"You bought half a dozen ties!" exclaimed Andrew.
"I did; and you're welcome to any of them you like. Or will you come with me and we'll choose something?"
"Thank you," replied his son sardonically; "but on the whole I'd sooner trust to nature."
"In that case, Heaven help you, my poor boy! You have your good points, but beauty's not among them. Imagine you as a statue, Andrew! Eh?"
The worthy gentleman laughed genially, but the unhappy lover did not join in his mirth.
"I am glad I amuse you," he said, and rose to leave the table.
"Sit down, sit down, man," his father commanded; "I haven't half finished with you yet. Have you read any poetry to her?"
"I have not."
"Well, read some; try a bit of—er—I'm not so well up in the poets as I hope to be soon, but I fancy Byron has written some very stimulating verses; or why go over the border for them—why not try her with Burns? What's finer than—