If men will pick up their wives in such an irregular manner, they must not be astonished at the surprises the future has in store for them. It will be learned from this narrative that acquaintances made in the street are never any good. My friend met the girl he married in a post-office; she was sending a telegram, and his business was confined to the purchase of a penny stamp. As it turned out, the buying of that stamp was the most unfortunate thing Drummond ever done. I have often thought that if he had by any chance only seen the contents of the lady's message, his eyes would have been opened and he would have been saved much money. They spoke—I never knew exactly how that came about, but it is easy to guess. A look would be sufficient, for Alfred Drummond, who was one of the most susceptible of men, but I rather think that the ill-fated intimacy began with the restoration of a dropped handkerchief. At all events, the meeting in the post-office ended by the lady's address being obtained, and permission to visit her being granted. A quiet, well-appointed brougham was waiting the fair siren outside the post-office, and my friend came rushing to me full of the adventure, and, so to speak, treading on air.
When you find a man is in love don't trouble to reason with him. Labour lost. And for your own sake don't attempt to say one word against his mistress if you want to avoid a duel to the death. Any aspersions cast upon the whiteness of the charmer's teeth, the colour of her hair, the smallness of her foot, or the levity of her conduct, will never be forgiven. Mr. Alfred Drummond had had to my knowledge many previous attacks of this love fever, but none of them so sudden, severe, and lasting a nature as the present one. He was perfectly infatuated, and his ravings about the lady's perfections disgusted his more sober-minded companions. There is no doubt Mrs. Selby—he told us that was the name—gave him great encouragement from the commencement. It seems that on presenting himself at the lady's villa, which was situated at West Brompton, the door was opened by a man servant, and he was shown into an exquisitely decorated drawing-room. He was received most graciously, and his visits became of almost daily occurrence, and letters were continually passing between them. On the occasion of a carpet dance, I was introduced to my friend's enslaver, but her shifty look created doubts about her integrity in my mind, and I did not like the people I met at her house. If they did not belong to Bohemia proper, they lived within hailing distance of that mystic land. No one enjoys a "lark" more than the writer of this "ower true tale," but when it becomes a question of marriage, too much caution cannot be used. There would be fewer cases in the Divorce Court if men would be ruled by their judgments instead of their passions. All my efforts to control my friend in this matter were fruitless. I could see things were approaching a climax, so I was not surprised at the announcement Drummond made to me one morning, about two months after their first interview.
"Congratulate me, old fellow," he said, bouncing into my office, with an open note in his hand; "I have won the prize."
"I am very glad; how much is it." I knew well enough what he meant, and was sorry to hear the news.
"It is not a prize in the French lottery; something immeasurably superior to money."
"A castle on the Rhine, with the title of Baron attached to it?"
"No, stupid; you are extra dull this morning; the incomparable prize is Mrs. Selby."
"Oh, the widow," I remarked; "so all mysteries have been explained."
"I don't know what you mean; the mysteries, as you call them originated in your own suspicious mind."