Chapter 1: The First Wooer

Number Two, Draper’s Gardens, the office of Mr. John Ash, dealer in stocks and shares. Time, noon. Mr. Ash, with his hat pushed on to the back of his head, seated at a table studying a letter.

“Whatever women find to write about beats me. A man puts a volume inside two lines. A woman puts two lines inside a volume.”

Mr. Ash rustled the letter irritably in his hands. It was a voluminous production, written by a feminine pen, crossed and recrossed in a way which, in these days of cheap paper and cheap postage, none but a feminine pen would dream of.

“However a man is supposed to read it is more than I can tell. I can just make out the opening: ‘My dearest guardian,’--yes, dear at any price! And the signature--where is it? I know I saw it somewhere. Yes, of course, there it is--straggling across the date and the address: ‘Your affectionate ward, Lily Truscott’!”

He laid the letter down, and thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, leaned back in his chair, and began to whistle softly beneath his breath.

“I wish I could get some one to marry her--a decent sort of man. Though, upon my word, if this sort of thing is to go on”--he glanced at the letter with a look of mild despair--”I sha’n’t mind who it is. She knows I hate letters--that’s why she keeps on writing them. If two men can’t know each other without one of them dying and leaving the other with his daughter on his hands, no wonder a man likes to keep his circle of acquaintance small. And when the girl’s got looks and money, God help the man who’s got to stay and mind her! Well, here goes. I suppose I’ll have to answer it, or she’ll be writing again to-morrow to know if I am ill.”

Taking up the letter he regarded it with a look of ineffable disgust.

“What she says I don’t know. Rather than decipher these hieroglyphics I’d lose a hundred pounds. Anyhow, here goes to make the best of it.”

Drawing towards him a sheet of paper and a pen he began to nibble the end of the pen.

“What the dickens shall I say? How can a man answer a letter when he doesn’t know what is in it!”

He began to write, indulging in a sort or commentary by the way.

“My dear Lily, --I have read your charming letter with the greatest interest. (I have! I have!) You are indeed a mistress of the epistolary art. (I hope she won’t imagine that’s writ sarkastick. Now, what shall I say?) The account which you give of the doings of your neighbourhood (I hope that’s safe--it ought to be, women always do talk about that kind of thing) is most entertaining. (Most!) It is with the greatest pleasure that I hear of your continuance in good health. (I wonder if she says anything about her being ill?) I am glad to hear, too, that your aunt, Mrs. Clive, is still in the enjoyment of nature’s greatest blessing. (I wonder if she mentions the old girl’s name!) Pray convey to her my compliments. (Old fool! Now for something to wind up with.) I envy you your peaceful sojourn amidst summer’s scenic splendours. (Not so bad! ‘summer’s scenic splendours.’) Tied as I am to the Juggernaut of commerce, I can, however, but look and long. (I wouldn’t live in a place like that for thirty thousand a year.)