Mr. Culpepper nodded again. “She thought I was, and that came to the same thing,” he said, composedly. “And it ain't for me to say, but she had an idea that I was very good-looking in them days. I had chestnutty hair. She burnt a piece of it only the other day she'd kept for thirty years.”
“Burnt it? What for?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“Words,” said the other, lowering his voice. “When I want one thing nowadays she generally wants another; and the things she wants ain't the things I want.”
Mr. Sharp shook his head and sighed again.
“You ain't talkative enough for Florrie, you know,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him.
“I can talk all right as a rule,” retorted Mr. Sharp. “You ought to hear me at the debating society; but you can't talk to a girl who doesn't talk back.”
“You're far too humble,” continued the other. “You should cheek her a bit now and then. Let 'er see you've got some spirit. Chaff 'er.”
“That's no good,” said the young man, restlessly. “I've tried it. Only the other day I called her 'a saucy little kipper,' and the way she went on, anybody would have thought I'd insulted her. Can't see a joke, I s'pose. Where is she now?”
“Upstairs,” was the reply.
“That's because I'm here,” said Mr. Sharp. “If it had been Jack Butler she'd have been down fast enough.”