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With elbows out and heels run in,
For lacking of a wife—O!
With lips to kiss, but no lips his,
He leads a sorry life—O!
"God help the povern Bachelor
When heart and hair grow gray,
With little joy for aught, my boy,
Save having of his way!"
"That's a silly tune," said Miles. The other blinked across at him calmly.
"There's many a true word spoken in song," he answered, solemnly. "How old are you, Miles?"
"Thirty-one, please your Honor."
"You ought to be married," said the artist, severely. "You're wasting your time."
"The deuce you say! Well, from a confirmed, disgruntled old bach like you that comes well!"
"It would do you good in more ways
