The Major sighed and leaned back in his chair while Lord Cleeve watched him and, snuffing copiously, sighed sympathetically.
"'Tis the woefullest figure ya' cut, Jack, wi' that long face and damned old service coat."
"'Tis the one I wore at Ramillies," said the Major, glancing down at faded cloth and tarnished lace.
"Is it, begad! I'd never ha' recognised it. Then 'tis time 'twas superannuated and retired from active service. You was wounded that day I remember, Jack."
"Yes."
"Twice."
"Yes."
"But ya' never wore look so doleful—never such a damned dumb-dog, suffer-and-smite me air—not then, Jack—not in those days and ya' were generally nursing some wound or other."
"I was younger then!" sighed the Major.
"Pah!" exclaimed the Colonel scattering a pinch of snuff in his vehemence, "I say pish, man—tush and the devil! Ya' younger these days than ever ya' were—all ya' need to become a very youth is a petticoat—take your old comrade's advice and marry one."