"Glorious," said I: "that is, aye, mistress. Remember, I have six spare axles disguised as golf clubs."
"But what of my father? His grey hairs—"
"When I last saw thine aged sire, pipkin, three postboys were engaged in sawing him out of a window, through which he should never have attempted to climb. The angle of his chaise suggested that one of the hind wheels was, to put it mildly, somewhat out of the true. The fact that, before we started, I myself withdrew its linchpin goes to support this theory."
"My poor father! Master Adam, I almost find it in my heart to hate you."
"Believe me, fair but haughty, the old fool has taken no hurt. Distant as we were, I could hear his oaths of encouragement, while the post-boys sawed as they had never sawed before. From the way they were doing it, I shouldn't think they ever had."
"But they will soon procure a new linchpin. Is that right? And, oh, Adam, they may be here any moment."
"Not so, my poppet. To get a linchpin, they must find a smith. All the smiths within a radius of thirty miles are drunk. Yes, me again. A man has to think of all these little things. I say, we're giving the walls the time of their life, aren't we? Have another cigarette?"
"After which I must go to bed."
"As you please, Mistress Eve," said I, reaching for a live coal to give her a light.
For a little space we sat silent, watching the play of the flames. Then she spoke slowly, half her thoughts elsewhere: