Thos. Why, yes; she’s changed since she came hither.
Fath. Changed, do you say, Master Thomas? Changed, forsooth! I know not the thing in which she is not changed, saving that she is still a woman. I tell thee there is no keeping pace with her moods. In the country she had none of them. When I brought what she asked for, it was “Thank you, Fathom,” and no more to do; but now, nothing contents her. Hark ye! were you a gentleman, Master Thomas,—for then you know you would be a different kind of man,—how many times would you have your coat altered?
Thos. Why, Master Fathom, as many times as it would take to make it fit me.
Fath. Good! But, supposing it fitted thee at the first?
Thos. Then would I have it altered not at all.
Fath. Good! Thou wouldst be a reasonable gentleman. Thou wouldst have a conscience. Now hark to a tale about my lady’s last gown. How many times, think you, took I it back to the sempstress?
Thos. Thrice, may be.
Fath. Thrice, may be! Twenty times, may be; and not a turn too many, for the truth on’t. Twenty times, on the oath of the sempstress. Now mark me—can you count?
Thos. After a fashion.
Fath. You have much to be thankful for, Master Thomas. You London serving-men have a world of things, which we in the country never dream of. Now mark:—Four times took I it back for the flounce; twice for the sleeves; three for the tucker—How many times in all is that?