The Post-Office is a very shrewdly managed department
of the public service; it has brought to perfection the art of obtaining
_maximum_ results with a _minimum_ expenditure. But Mr. Farmiloe remembered
the other aspect of the matter; he would benefit so largely by this
ill-paid undertaking that grumbling was foolish. Moreover, the thing
carried dignity with it; he served his Majesty, he served the nation.
And--ha, ha!--how very odd it would be to post one's letters in one's own
post-office. One might really get a good deal of amusement out of the
thought, after business hours. His age was eight-and-thirty. For some years
he had pondered matrimony, though without fixing his affections on any
particular person. It was plain, indeed, that he ought to marry. Every
tradesman is made more respectable by wedlock, and a chemist who, in some
degree, resembles a medical man, seems especially to stand in need of the
matrimonial guarantee. Had it been feasible, Mr. Farmiloe would have
brought a wife with him from the town where he had lived for the past few
years, but he was in the difficult position of knowing not a single
marriageable female to whom he could address himself with hope or with
self-respect.
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