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“You can’t be TOO careful WHO you marry,” said Mr. Brisher, and pulled thoughtfully with a fat-wristed hand at the lank moustache that hides his want of chin. “That’s why-” I ventured. “Yes,” said Mr. Brisher, with a solemn light in his bleary, blue-grey eyes, moving his head expressively and breathing alcohol INTIMATELY at me. “There’s lots as ‘ave ‘ad a try at me-many as I could name in this town-but none ‘ave done it-none.
” I surveyed the flushed countenance, the equatorial expansion, the masterly carelessness of his attire, and heaved a sigh to think that by reason of the unworthiness of women he must needs be the last of his race. “I was a smart young chap when I was younger,” said Mr. Brisher. “I ‘ad my work cut out. But I was very careful-very. And I got through…” He leant over the taproom table and thought visibly on the subject of my trustworthiness. I was relieved at last by his confidence.