“All the ale you’ve drunk.”
“They didn’t propose my health straight. They gave the toast: ‘Ephraim Exton’s son.’ They haven’t forgotten the old man.” Laying down his cap he fished out his pipe, regarding it rather helplessly.
“Let me fill your pipe, dear,” said Agatha.
John laughed.
“Can you do it, old girl?”
“Can I do it?”
She went to work with a skill that argued some practice, but John was not of a jealous disposition. He watched her deft fingers with admiration, remarking pleasantly:
“Little chunk of all-right, you are.”
“Don’t use up all your sugar, sergeant. There!”
She put the pipe between his smiling lips.