“More than fifty people to wait upon four!”
“For our state and importance, chérie. We are very ill-waited upon. I nearly died last week before I could get any one to bring me my afternoon chocolate. The men had all rushed off to a bull-baiting, and the women were romping or fighting in the laundry, except my own women, who are too genteel to play with the under-servants, and had taken a holiday to go and see a tragedy at Oxford. I found myself in a deserted house. I might have been burnt alive, or have expired in a fit, for aught any of those over-fed devils cared.”
“But could they not be better regulated?”
“They are, when Manningtree is at home. He has them all under his thumb.”
“And he is an honest, conscientious man?”
“Who knows? I dare say he robs us, and takes a pot de vin wherever ’tis offered. But it is better to be robbed by one than by an army; and if Manningtree keeps others from cheating he is worth his wages.”
“And you, dear Hyacinth. Do you keep no accounts?”
“Keep accounts! Why, my dearest simpleton, did you ever hear of a woman of quality keeping accounts—unless it were some lunatic universal genius like her Grace of Newcastle, who rises in the middle of the night to scribble verses, and who might do anything preposterous. Keep accounts! Why, if you was to tell me that two and two make five I couldn’t controvert you, from my own knowledge.”
“It all seems so strange to me,” murmured Angela.
“My aunt supervised all the expenditure of the convent, and was unhappy if she discovered waste in the smallest item.”