"Why, since you put the point, my lady, I should say 'tis either on account o' petticoats or witchcraft or—maybe both. And talking o' witchcraft, there's his coat now, p'r'aps you might chance to be——"
"He seems mighty set on this coat," said she, deftly spreading out her voluminous petticoats, "and 'tis such a shabby, woeful old thing."
"True mam, but I follered that coat through the smoke and dust of Ramillies fight though 'twas gayer then, d'ye see, but even now it shows the rents in skirt and arm o' bullet and bagnet as he took that day. 'Tis a wonderful garment, my lady."
"It would irk him to lose it, belike?"
"Lose it! Mam, it aren't to be thought on!"
"Still I think 'twould do him a world of good if 'twere lost awhile, it seems to affect him so evilly."
"Nay, I think 'tis t'other way about, mam. Says I to him one day, 'Sir,' says I, 'when at all put out wherefore and why the Ramillie coat?' 'Because Zeb,' says he, 'when I put it on I seem to put on some of my lost youth also.' Still, there's limits, mam, there's limits, and for a gentleman o' his degree to go out in same, and among his tenants d'ye see, well, it aren't right—though I've darned same constant. No wonder Widow Weston, which same is a scold, my lady, but 'tis no wonder she contradictioned of his honour no later than yesterday arternoon towards four o' the clock as ever was——"
"Aye, I know Widow Weston!" smiled my lady. "Contradicted him—aye—she would."
"And did, my lady! Here's his honour in his old coat a-bowing to her and a-choking and coughing d'ye see, on account of her chimbley a-smoking woeful. 'Mam,' says he, 'I fear your chimbley smokes.' 'It don't!' she cries, 'it don't, and if it do 'tis no worse than it was in my husband's time and if it did for him 'twill do for me,' she says. Whereon his honour bows himself into the air and wipes the soot out of his eyes all the way home, mam."
"But referring to the coat, Sergeant——"