One evening the Major came into my little room to take a cup of tea and a morsel of buttered toast and to read Jemmy’s newest letter which had arrived that afternoon (by the very same postman more than middle-aged upon the Beat now), and the letter raising him up a little I says to the Major:
“Major you mustn’t get into a moping way.”
The Major shook his head. “Jemmy Jackman Madam,” he says with a deep sigh, “is an older file than I thought him.”
“Moping is not the way to grow younger Major.”
“My dear Madam,” says the Major, “is there any way of growing younger?”
Feeling that the Major was getting rather the best of that point I made a diversion to another.
“Thirteen years! Thir-teen years! Many Lodgers have come and gone, in the thirteen years that you have lived in the parlours Major.”
“Hah!” says the Major warming. “Many Madam, many.”
“And I should say you have been familiar with them all?”
“As a rule (with its exceptions like all rules) my dear Madam” says the Major, “they have honoured me with their acquaintance, and not unfrequently with their confidence.”