Cook. Thirty-eight are here.
Bess [angrily]. Always something lacking, it seems. A plague, you fellows! Understand me, Cook, if the castle goes hungry you shall go more hungry, and your purse still more. Briskets, sallets, eggs, cheeses—where are they? Crompe, here—take you the bill, and if anything lacks you know who shall first go supperless. Not the Queen, and not your master and lady. Nor the Queen’s folk either. But you, Crompe—do you hear me? You!
Crompe [agitated]. Yes, my Lady. Indeed, my Lady.... I have made provision to your order ... for twenty persons.
Bess. Twenty? And I have told you forty....
Crompe. Thirty beds said Mrs. Glasse.
Bess. Mrs. Glasse knows nothing. Dare you scream ever to me of Mrs. Glasse, Crompe? [More quietly.] Listen, listen. The Queen brings five gentlemen—hungry riding gentlemen; six gentlewomen—weary riding women. God help us for their airs and graces, their wants and their want-nots! And the gentlemen must have their men. God help us again! Three in number these men. And the gentlewomen will bring two wives to wait on them, and there will be fourteen servitors, three cooks. Crompe, cease that arithmetic of your fingers, for it incenses me!—Four boys, ten wenches and children——
Crompe [aghast, counting on his fingers behind his back]. ’Tis forty-eight without the children, my Lady.
Bess. Well, well, can I not add two and two as well as you, Crompe? Does it help me if you stand there with a mouth like a porringer?
Crompe. But the children, my Lady!
Bess. And the horses, Crompe!