"A man is as old as he looks, sir, and you look no older than thirty-one."
The Major shook his head.
"I could ha' wished myself a little more sombre-clad——"
"Sambre sir—O Gad support me, sambre? Permit me to say, sir, with the greatest deference in the world—tush t'you, sir! Why must ye pine to be sambre? You ain't a parson nor a Quaker, nor yet a funeral! With all due respect, sir—pish! You are as sober clad as any self-respecting gentleman could desire."
"D'ye think so, Tom?"
"Sure of it, sir, 'pon my honour!"
"Hum!" said the Major still a little dubious and reaching for his gold-laced hat, was in the act of setting it on his head when a cry from the Viscount arrested him.
"Gad love me, sir, what are you about with your hat?"
"I am about to put it on, sure, nephew."
"O Lard, sir, never do so, I beg!"