Mr. Culpepper, whose feelings were a trifle ruffled, said that he would “look after it too.” He had a faint idea that, even from his own point of view, he might have made a better selection for his niece's hand.
Mr. Sharp smoked his first cigarette the following morning, and, encouraged by the entire absence of any after-effects, purchased a pipe, which was taken up by a policeman the same evening for obstructing the public footpath in company with a metal tobacco-box three parts full.
In the matter of ale he found less difficulty. Certainly the taste was unpleasant, but, treated as medicine and gulped down quickly, it was endurable. After a day or two he even began to be critical, and on Monday evening went so far as to complain of its flatness to the wide-eyed landlord of the “Royal George.”
“Too much cellar-work,” he said, as he finished his glass and made for the door.
“Too much! 'Ere, come 'ere,” said the landlord, thickly. “I want to speak to you.”
The expert shook his head, and, passing out into, the street, changed colour as he saw Miss Garland approaching. In a blundering fashion he clutched at his hat and stammered out a “Good evening.”
Miss Garland returned the greeting and, instead of passing on, stopped and, with a friendly smile, held out her hand. Mr. Sharp shook it convulsively.
“You are just the man I want to see,” she exclaimed. “Aunt and I have been talking about you all the afternoon.”
Mr. Sharp said “Really!”
“But I don't want uncle to see us,” pursued Miss Garland, in the low tones of confidence. “Which way shall we go?”