"O pray stoop your head!"
The Sergeant obeyed and it naturally followed that the Sergeant's neat wig was very near Mrs. Agatha's pretty mob-cap, so near, indeed that a tress of her glossy hair tickled his bronzed, smooth-shaven chin; the Sergeant saw her eyes, grave and intent, the oval of a soft cheek, the curve of two lips—full, soft lips, ripely delicious and tempting and so near that he had but to turn his head——
The Sergeant turned his head and for a long, breathless moment lips met lips then:
"Why, Sergeant!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "O Sergeant—Zebedee—Tring!" And turning, she sped away into the house.
Left alone the Sergeant picked up his hammer, stared at it and put it carefully into his pocket; having done which, he laughed, grew solemn, and sighed.
"Well," said he at last, "all I says is——"
But for once he could find no words for it in English, French or Dutch.