"T' be born the only son of a rich father is a pretty bad disease, I reckon!" she continued, "yes, siree, it's bad for the child an' worse for the man; it's bound to be his ruination in the end—like drink! And talkin' o' drink, I'm glad to see that b'y Arthur's so fond o' you."
"Oh, why?"
"Because you don't drink."
"Well, I don't go to bed in my boots, do I, Mrs. Trapes? But then I promised you I wouldn't, and, for another thing, I'm not a poet, you see," said he and yawned lazily.
"Hermy says she's glad too."
Mr. Ravenslee cut short his yawn in the middle.
"Hermione? Did she say so? When?"
"Ah, I guessed that would wake ye up a bit!" said Mrs. Trapes, noting his suddenly eager look. "It's a pity you're so poor, ain't it?"
"Why? What do you mean?"
"I mean if you had been in a good situation an' making good money—twenty-five per, say—you might have asked her."