"Because I have nothing to do with it. I can only give you my general ideas on the subject of marriage. If you apply them, that is your affair. A pretty thing on an oath of discovery," murmured the poetical lawyer.
Verty had not heard the last words; he was reflecting. Roundjacket watched him with a strange, wistful look, which had much kindness and feeling in it.
"But why not marry?" said Verty, at last; "it seems to me sir, that people ought to marry; I think I could find a great many good reasons for it."
"Could you; how many?"
"A hundred, I suppose."
"And I could find a thousand against it," said Roundjacket. "Mark me, sir—except under certain circumstances, a man is not the same individual after marrying—he deteriorates."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I mean, that in most cases it is for the worse—the change of condition.
"How, sir?"
"Observe the married man," replied Roundjacket, philosophically—"see his brow laden with cares, his important look, his solemn deportment. None of the lightness and carelessness of the bachelor."