“You see, he is sech a gent for his larks,” said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.
Burgess was Magnus’s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.
But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.
“How is he, my lord?” he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.
“Well, my lord—”
“Now look here, Burgess; haven’t I told you a dozen times over to say ‘sir’ to me when I’m here?”
“Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect.”
“I know—of course, Burgess; but isn’t he better?”
“He says he is, sir; and the doctor—he’s only just this minute gone, sir.”
“Yes, I know. I saw his brougham.”