"Any man as would give forty shillin' for a garment as is no mortal good agen the cold—not reachin' fur enough, even if it do be silk, an' all worked wi' little flowers—is a dommed fool!—"
"Assuredly!" said I, with a nod.
"Howsomever," he continued, "it's a handsome weskit, there's no denyin', an' well worth a woman's lookin' at—a proper man inside of it."
"Not a doubt of it," said I.
"I mean," said he, scratching his ear, and staring hard at the handle of the pitchfork, "a chap wi' a fine pair o' whiskers, say."
"Hum!" said I.
"Now, woman," he went on, shifting his gaze to the top button of his left gaiter, "woman is uncommon fond o' a good pair o' whiskers—leastways, so I've heerd."
"Indeed," said I, "few women can look upon such things unmoved, I believe, and nothing can set off a pair of fine, black whiskers better than a flowered satin waistcoat."
"That's so!" nodded the farmer.
"But, unfortunately," said I, passing my hand over my smooth lips and chin, "I have no whiskers."