Verty nodded, as much as to say that there was a great deal of truth in this much.
"Then observe the glance," continued Roundjacket, "if I may be permitted to use a colloquialism which is coming into use—there is not that brilliant cut of the eye, which you see in us young fellows—it is all gone, sir!"
Verty smiled.
"The married man frequently delegates his soul to his better half," continued Roundjacket, rising with his subject; "all his independence is gone. He can't live the life of a jolly bachelor, with pipe and slippers, jovial friends and nocturnal suppers. The pipe is put out, sir—the slippers run down—and the joyous laughter of his good companions becomes only the recollection of dead merriment. He progresses, sir—does the married man—from bad to worse; he lives in a state of hen-pecked, snubbed, unnatural apprehension; he shrinks from his shadow; trembles at every sound; and, in the majority of cases, ends his miserable existence, sir, by hanging himself to the bed-post!"
Having drawn this awful picture of the perils of matrimony, Mr.
Roundjacket paused and smiled. Verty looked puzzled.
"You seem to think it is very dreadful," said Verty; "are you afraid of women, sir?"
"No, I am not, sir! But I might very rationally be."
"Anan?"
"Yes, sir, very reasonably; the fact is, you cannot be a lady's man, and have any friends, without being talked about."
Verty nodded, with a simple look, which struck Mr. Roundjacket forcibly.