"He's all that, mam, yet——"
"Why should any man be slovenly and old before his time?"
"Aye, why indeed, mam but——"
"There's yourself, for instance."
"Who—me, mam?" exclaimed the Sergeant, hitting himself an amazed blow on the chest with the pincers, "me?"
"Aye, you! Not that you're slovenly, but you talk and act like a Methusalem instead of a—a careless boy of forty."
"Three, mam—forty-three."
"Aye, a helpless child of forty-three."
"Child!" murmured the Sergeant. "Helpless child—me? Now what I says to that is——"
"Hush!" said Mrs. Agatha, severely; but beholding his stupefaction she laughed merrily and taking up the peas, vanished into the kitchen, laughing still.