Shirker, who has about as much warmth as an eel, made up to Polly years and years ago, and was no bad match for a briefless barrister, as he was then.
Have you ever read Lord Eldon's Life?
Do you remember how the sordid old Snob narrates his going out to purchase twopence-worth of sprats, which he and Mrs.Scott fried between them?
And how he parades his humility, and exhibits his miserable poverty--he who, at that time, must have been making a thousand pounds a year?
Well, Shirker was just as proud of his prudence--just as thankful for his own meanness, and of course would not marry without a competency.

Who so honourable?
Polly waited, and waited faintly, from year to year.

HE wasn't sick at heart; HIS passion never disturbed his six hours' sleep, or kept his ambition out of mind.

He would rather have hugged an attorney any day than have kissed Polly, though she was one of the prettiest creatures in the world; and while she was pining alone upstairs, reading over the stock of half-a-dozen frigid letters that the confounded prig had condescended to write to her, HE, be sure, was never busy with anything but his briefs in chambers--always frigid, rigid, self-satisfied, and at his duty.

The marriage trailed on year after year, while Mr.Serjeant Shirker grew to be the famous lawyer he is.
'Meanwhile, my younger brother, Pump Temple, who was in the 120th Hussars, and had the same little patrimony which fell to the lot of myself and Polly, must fall in love with our cousin, Fanny Figtree, and marry her out of hand.