"Not a selection. You've got one."
"What the dickens do you mean?"
"Come, Ash, you know. It's your ward, Miss Truscott."
Mr. Ash gave a loud whistle of surprise. Then he turned in his chair and stared at the dapper little man. The dapper little man went on, in the calmest, matter-of-fact sort of way--
"The fact is, I'm sick of chambers, and I'm sick of dining at the club. I want a house, and I don't care to take a house unless I take a wife. Why shouldn't it be Miss Truscott, Ash?"
He paused as if for a reply. But if he did, none came.
"There's another thing. You know Rosenbaum?"
Mr. Ash signified assent.
"He wants to plant one of his girls on me. All six of them, so far as I can see. He's always shying them at my head. Besides, he's been hammered twice. If he went again, where should I be, I'd like to know. Not to mention that the whole six of them have got carbuncles instead of noses, and moustaches quite as good as mine."
"I did hear that you were engaged to a Miss Rosenbaum."