But now that the child was gone out of the Lodgings the Major fell into a
regularly moping state. It was taken notice of by all the Lodgers that
the Major moped. He hadn't even the same air of being rather tall than
he used to have, and if he varnished his boots with a single gleam of
interest it was as much as he did.

One evening the Major came into my little room to take a cup of tea and a
morsel of buttered toast and to read Jemmy's newest letter which had
arrived that afternoon (by the very same postman more than middle-aged
upon the Beat now), and the letter raising him up a little I says to the
Major:

"Major you mustn't get into a moping way."

The Major shook his head. "Jemmy Jackman Madam," he says with a deep
sigh, "is an older file than I thought him."

"Moping is not the way to grow younger Major."

"My dear Madam," says the Major, "is there _any_ way of growing younger?"

Feeling that the Major was getting rather the best of that point I made a
diversion to another.

"Thirteen years! Thir-teen years! Many Lodgers have come and gone, in
the thirteen years that you have lived in the parlours Major."

"Hah!" says the Major warming. "Many Madam, many."

"And I should say you have been familiar with them all?"