"Certainly. Why not?"
"What, you—you as is only jest out o' the valley o' th' shadder! You as we've all give up for dead over an' over! You get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee!"
"Oh," said Ravenslee, knitting his dark brows thoughtfully, "have I been sick long?"
"Four weeks."
"Weeks!" he exclaimed, staring incredulously.
"Four weeks an' a bit! For four weary, woeful weeks you've been layin' here with death hoverin' over you, Mr. Geoffrey. For four long weeks we've been waitin' for ye t' draw your las' breath, Mr. Ravenslee. For four 'eart-rendin' weeks your servants has been carryin' on below stairs an' robbin' you somethin' shameful."
"My servants? Oh, yes, they generally do. But tell me—"
"The amount o' food as they consoom constant! The waste! The extravagance! Th' beer an' wine an' sperrits they swaller! Them is sure the thirstiest menials ever I heard tell of! An' the butler—such airs, such a appetite! An' sherry an' bitters t' make it worse! Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, your servants sure is a ravenin' horde!"
"Don't be too hard on 'em, Mrs. Trapes," he answered gravely, "I'm afraid I've neglected them quite a good deal. But it's a woman's hand they need over them."
"It's a pleeceman's club they need on 'em—frequent! I'd learn 'em different, I guess—"