MATEY (shuffling). He won't tell, my lady. I think he is frightened that the police would step in if they knew how old he is. They do say in the village that they remember him seventy years ago, looking just as he does to-day.
ALICE. Absurd.
MATEY. Yes, ma'am; but there are his razors.
LADY CAROLINE. Razors?
MATEY. You won't know about razors, my lady, not being married—as yet—excuse me. But a married lady can tell a man's age by the number of his razors. (A little scared.) If you saw his razors—there is a little world of them, from patents of the present day back to implements so horrible, you can picture him with them in his hand scraping his way through the ages.
LADY CAROLINE. You amuse one to an extent. Was he ever married?
MATEY (too lightly). He has quite forgotten, my lady. (Reflecting.) How long ago is it since Merry England?
LADY CAROLINE. Why do you ask?
MABEL. In Queen Elizabeth's time, wasn't it?
MATEY. He says he is all that is left of Merry England: that little man.