He looked so dear and ridiculous with his preposterous curly wig and his battered face.

He went on with his task.
"I wonder, Marigold," said I, "how you put up with me." He did not reply until he had placed the neatly arranged tray across my body.
"I've never heard, sir," said he, "as how a man couldn't put up with his blessings." A bit of sole was on my fork and I was about to convey it to my mouth, but there came a sudden lump in my throat and I put the fork down.
"But what about the curses ?" A horrible contortion of the face and a guttural rumble indicated amusement on the part of Marigold.

I stared, very serious, having been profoundly touched.
"What are you laughing at ?" I asked.
The idiot's merriment increased in vehemence.

He said: "You're too funny, sir," and just bolted, in a manner unbecoming not only to a sergeant, but even to a butler.
As I mused on this unprecedented occurrence, I made a discovery,--that of Sergeant Marigold's sense of humour.

To that sense of humour my upbraidings, often, I must confess, couched in picturesque and figurative terms so as not too greatly to hurt his feelings, had made constant appeal for the past fifteen years.