Unless one is wealthy, there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realized. Intellectually, he was not of much importance. He never said a brilliant or even ill-natured thing in his life. But he was wonderfully good-looking, as popular with men as he was with women, and had every accomplishment except making money. His father had bequeathed him a cavalry sword and a History of the Peninsular War in fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass, put the second on a shelf between Ruff's Guide and Bailey's Magazine, and lived on two hundred a year from an aunt. He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six months; but what was a butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer but soon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he tried selling dry sherry. That did not answer. Ultimately, he became nothing: a delightful, ineffectual young man with a perfect profile and no profession.

To make matters worse, he was in love with Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel. Laura adored him, and he worshipped her, but neither had a penny to their name. Though the Colonel liked Hughie, he refused to approve their engagement.