Well, don't ask me to have any hand in it. You are a man of promise; and
you might as well hang a millstone round your neck as a wife. Marriage
is a greater mistake than ever now; the women dress more and manage
worse. I met your cousin Jack the other day, and his wife with seventy
pounds on her back; and next door to paupers. No; whilst you are a
bachelor, like me, you are my favorite, and down in my will for a lump.
Once marry, and you join the noble army of foot-pads, leeches, vultures,
paupers, gone coons, and babblers about brats--and I disown you."
There was no hope from old Crusty. Christopher left him, snubbed and
heart-sick. At last he met a sensible man, who made him see there was
no short cut in that profession. He must be content to play the up-hill
game; must settle in some good neighborhood; marry, if possible, since
husbands and fathers of families prefer married physicians; and so be
poor at thirty, comfortable at forty, and rich at fifty--perhaps.
Then Christopher came down to his lodgings at Gravesend, and was very
unhappy; and after some days of misery, he wrote a letter to Rosa in a
moment of impatience, despondency, and passion.
Rosa Lusignan got worse and worse.
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