"There is no greater help for a rising politician than the right sort of wife," he remarked oracularly.
"My dear George," I said, "I don't want to grumble about the size of my income—it has always been ample for my simple tastes—but when it comes to marriage and living in London and being in Parliament, what the devil's the good of nine hundred pounds a year? Why, it wouldn't keep some women in frocks!"
"There are some women," replied George, "who can very well afford to pay for their own frocks."
I looked at him with surprise and pain.
"You are not doing anything so immoral as to suggest that I should marry for money?" I asked.
George carefully removed the ash from his cigar.
"To contract an alliance with a wealthy woman," he observed, "is not necessarily the same as what you are pleased to call marrying for money."
"No, George," I said. "I hope I'm sufficiently English to appreciate the difference."
"Besides," he went on, disregarding my interruption, "marriage must always be a matter of give and take. If a woman brings you a reasonable dowry, you, on the other hand, are able to offer her one of the oldest names in the country, an unimpeachable social position, and—er—a certain measure of youth and good looks."
I picked up one of the Savoy tablespoons, and contemplated my reflection in its highly polished surface. I can only conclude that it did not do me justice.