"Do you know if there's such a thing as a sensible woman in this establishment, Williamson?" I demanded.
"Well, sir, the cook's sensible when she's sober," he answered, pinching his chin dubiously.
"Does she happen to be sober now?"
He glanced at the clock. "I'll just see, sir," he said.
When he returned he announced, with perfect gravity, that she was 'passable sober, but busy with the dinner."
"Then look here," I exclaimed, out of all patience, "we must do it ourselves."
"Yes, sir," he said. "Anything I can do."
When I explained the difficulty, he suggested sending for his wife, who could manage, he thought, until the trained nurse arrived, and help her afterward. It was a good idea, and my man was despatched to bring her immediately.
"They're a bad lot o' servants, the women in this 'ouse at present," Williamson informed me. "The missus didn't choose 'em 'erself"—and he shook his head significantly, "But she knows what's what, and they're going. That's why they're takin' advantage."
I returned to Evadne. Her eyes were closed and her forehead contracted. Every breath of cold air was cutting her lungs like a knife, but she looked up at me when I took her hand, and smiled. I never knew anybody so patient and uncomplaining. She was lying on a little iron bedstead, hard and narrow as a camp bed. The room was bare-looking, the floor being polished and with only two small rugs, one at the fireplace and one beside the bed, upon it. It looked like a nun's cell, and there was a certain suggestion of purity in the sweetness and order of it quite consistent with the idea; but it was a north room and very cold, Evadne had unconsciously clasped my hand, and dozed off for a few minutes, holding it tight, but the cough re-aroused her. When she looked at me again her mind was wandering. She knew me, but she did not know what she was saying.