“Yes, you are.” From his stand upon the hearthrug the young man contemplated his host with extreme severity. “How old are you, Priestley?” he demanded at length.
“Thirty-six,” apologised Mr. Priestley.
“Thirty-six!” repeated the young man with remarkable scorn. “And what do you think people would take you for?”
“Thirty-five?” hazarded Mr. Priestley optimistically.
“Certainly not!” said the young man sharply. “Sixty-five, more like.”
“Oh, no, Pat,” protested Mr. Priestley, pained.
“At least sixty-five,” rejoined the young man firmly. “And no wonder. Do you know what you are, Priestley?”
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Priestley, a little doubtfully, “I’m a cabbage, and a vegetable-marrow, and a snail, and——”
“You’re a limpet!”
“A limpet as well?” said Mr. Priestley, with distress. “Now, what makes you say that, Pat?”