“What!” cried the old woman, springing up—“a doctor? Don’t you mention a doctor again in my presence, miss. Do you think I’d trust myself to one of the villains? He’d kill me in a week. Go and get my beef-tea. I’m quite well.”
Claire went softly out of the room, and the old woman sat up coughing and muttering.
“Worrying me for money, indeed—a dipperty-dapperty dancing-master! I won’t pay him a penny.”
Here there was a fit of coughing that made the fringe dance till the old woman recovered, wiped her eyes, and shook her skinny hand at the fringe for quivering.
“Doctor? Yes, they’d better. What do I want with a doctor? Let them get one for old Lyddy—wants one worse than I do, ever so much. Oh, there you are, miss. Is that beef-tea strong?”
“Yes, Lady Teigne, very strong.”
Claire placed a tray, covered with a white napkin, before her, and took the cover from the white china soup-basin, beside which was a plate of toast cut up into dice.
The old woman sniffed at a spoonful.
“How much cognac did you put in?”
“A full wine-glass, Lady Teigne.”