"Was!" corrected Mrs. Agatha. "Lud, Sergeant, there's a great lady from London been living there a month and more with a houseful of lackeys and servants."
"Ha, a month, mam? Lackeys and servants say you? B'gad, say I, that's them! Must report this to the Major. Must report at once!" and the Sergeant laid down his hammer.
"And where is the Major?"
"Mam," said the Sergeant, consulting a large, brass chronometer, "the hour is pre-cisely three-fourteen, consequently he is now a-sitting in his Ramillie coat a-writing of his History of Fortification—in ten vollums."
"'Twill be pity to wake him!" sighed Mrs. Agatha.
"Wake him?" repeated the Sergeant, staring; whereupon Mrs. Agatha laughed and went her way while he continued to stare after her until her trim figure and snowy mob-cap had vanished behind the yew-hedge.
Then the Sergeant sighed, reached for his coat, put it on, adjusted his tall, leathern stock, sighed again and turning sharp about, marched into the house.