“Not much. I have seen too many of my peers wrecked upon the rock-bound coast of matrimony to permit my argosy within those shallow and treacherous waters.”
“I guessed you were a bachelor,” observed Price facetiously.
“And might I ask, sir, how you were led to imagine this?” I felt curious to hear what the fellow would say.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Smith.”
“I am not Mr. Smith.”
“Well, Mr. Jones.”
“I am not Jones.”
“Robinson.”
“Your pertinacity, sir, ought to make your fortune at the Old Bailey.”
“Well said, Thompson. Now, you wish me to tell you how I guessed you were a bachelor. Firstly,” putting up his finger and tapping it with his cigar, “your general complacency; secondly, your linen—no married man ever commands the linen of a bachelor; thirdly, your gaiters—such fit, such polish!—fourthly, your isolation; and, fifthly, the methodical way in which you do everything, from lighting a cigar to playing a fantasia on your handkerchief with your nasal organ.”