“I’ve never known the old man to play so badly,” said Monk, with a deprecatory shrug of his shoulders. “That cup of tea he had with you in the parlour, Sir, must have gone to his head.”

“Give me little darter me love, Mr. Solent,” said the monument-maker. “And you may kiss she, too, if ye be so minded, from her old Dad. Not that they turns aught but cold maids’ cheeks to their Dad’s kisses. But that be all the better for thee, Sir; and ye are more like to mind me message than if ’t had been any o’ the young gents here assembled.”

Roger Monk’s victory at bowls had been celebrated by such copious libations that the gardener had no hesitation now about indulging in a piece of ribaldry from which in more sober mood he would certainly have refrained.