“Mrs. Smythe give ‘em leave of habsence, sir. Y’ see, sir,” said Joe apologetically, “you’re ‘ere so seldom, sir.”

“My servants are not exactly—er—worked to death, Joe?”

“No, sir.”

“Manage to look after themselves quite well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It seems I need some one to look after them—and me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A woman, Joe—one I can trust and honour and—what d’ ye think?”

“I think—er—yes, sir.”

“Well—what do you suggest?”

“Marry her, sir.”

“Joe, that’s a great idea! Shake hands! I surely will marry her—at once—if she’ll have me.”

“She’ll have you, sir.”

“Do you really think she will, Joe?”

“I’m dead certain, sir.”

“Joe, shake again. I’ll speak to her when she comes home. To-morrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

“As ever was, sir.”

“Then, Joe—wish me luck; I’ll ask her—to-morrow!”

CHAPTER XVI

OF THE FIRST AND SECOND PERSONS, SINGULAR NUMBER

It was Saturday morning, and Hermione was making a pie and looking uncommonly handsome about it and altogether feminine and adorable; at least, so Ravenslee thought, as he watched her bending above the pastry board, her round, white arms bared to each dimpled elbow, and the rebellious curl wantoning at her temple as usual.

“But why kidneys, my dear?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. “Kidneys is rose again; kidneys is always risin’, it seems to me. If you must have pie, why not good, plain beefsteak? It’s jest as fillin’ an’ cheaper, my dear—so why an’ wherefore kidneys?”

“Arthur likes them, and he’ll be hungry when he comes in—”

“Hungry,” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “that b’y’s been hungry ever since he drawed the breath o’ life. How’s he gettin’ on with his new job?”

“Oh, splendidly!” cried Hermione, flushing with sisterly pride, “they’ve promised him a raise next month.”

“What, already?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, cutting viciously into a potato. “If he don’t watch out, they’ll be makin’ him a partner next.”

“Oh, Ann, I wish you were not quite so—so hard on him!” sighed Hermione. “Remember, he’s only a boy!”

“You were a woman at his age, earning enough t’ keep ye both—but there! I don’t mean t’ be hard, Hermy; anyway, a man’s never much good till he’s growed up, and then only because some woman teaches him how t’ be.”

“What do you say to that, Mr. Geoffrey?” enquired Hermione, pausing, flour-dredger in hand, to glance at him slily under her brows.

“I think Mrs. Trapes is a wonderful woman,” he answered.

“Ah, now, Mr. Geoffrey, quit y’r jollying,” said Mrs. Trapes, smiling at the potato.

“Mrs. Trapes has taught me much wisdom already and, among other things, that I shall never be or do anything worth the while without the aid of a woman—”

“Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, I never remember sayin’ no sich thing!”

“Not in so many words, perhaps, but you implied it, Mrs. Trapes.”

“H’m!” said Mrs. Trapes dubiously.

“Consequently, I mean to ask that woman—on the very first opportunity, Miss Hermione.” Seeing that Hermione was silent, all her attention being centred in the dough her white fists were kneading, Mrs. Trapes spoke instead.

“D’ ye mean as you want some one t’ look after you—to sew an’ cook an’ wash an’ sew buttons on for ye—I know the sort!”

“I certainly do, and—”

“Ah, it’s a slave you want, Mr. Geoffrey, and peanut men don’t have slaves—not unless they marries ‘em, and a woman as would marry a peanut man has only herself t’ blame—peanuts!”

Hermione laughed, reached for the rolling-pin, and immediately fell to work with it, her head stooped rather lower than was necessary. As for Ravenslee, he lounged in his chair, watching the play of those round, white arms.

“But why the kidneys, Hermy? You’ve got to cut out luxuries now, my dear—we all have, I guess; it’ll be dry bread next, I reckon.”

“Why so?” enquired Ravenslee lazily.

“Why?” cried Mrs. Trapes bitterly, “I’ll tell you why—because me an’ Hermy an’ every one else is bein’ squeezed dry t’ fill the pockets of a thing as calls itself a man—a thievin’ beast on two legs as is suckin’ our blood, gnawin’ our flesh, grindin’ the life out of us—a great fat man as is treadin’ us down under his great boots, down an’ down to slavery—death—an’ worse—it’s such men as him as keeps the flames of hell goin’—fat frizzles well, an’ so will Mulligan, I hope!”

“Mulligan?” enquired Ravenslee.

“He’s raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey,” sighed Hermione.

“Raised the rents?” said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge.

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly. “I guess he thinks we live too easy an’ luxoorious, so he’s boosted it up a dollar per. A dollar a week don’t sound a whole lot, p’raps, but it sure takes some gettin’; folks expects a deal o’ scrubbin’ an’ sewin’ an’ slavin’ for a dollar—yes, sir.”

“We shall have to work a little harder, that’s all, Ann dear.”

“Harder? I guess you work hard enough for two—an’ who gets the benefit? Why, Mulligan does. Oh, it’s a great comfort t’ remember the flames of hell, sometimes. Lord, when I think how we have t’ slave t’ make enough t’ live—”

“There are others worse than us, Ann.”

“Why, yes, there’s poor Mrs. Finlay; she’s got to go, an’ her husband paralysed! There’s little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t’ keep her home together—she’s got to go. There’s Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—but there, who cares for the likes o’ them—who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? An’ what might you be dreamin’ over this time?” she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee’s long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed.

“I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—if we only would take the trouble to look for it!” he answered. “The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—damnably thick—er—pardon me, I—er nearly got excited.”

“Excited?” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “I’d pay good money t’ see you like that!”

“You see, I had an idea—a rather original idea!”

“Then take care of it, Mr. Geoffrey; nurse it careful, and we’ll have ye doin’ bigger things than push a peanut barrer—peanuts!”

“Mrs. Trapes, I’ve got a stranglehold on that idea, for it is rather brilliant.”

“There’s that kettle b’ilin’ at last, thank goodness!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, crossing to the stove, “tea’s a luxury, I suppose, but—oh, drat Mulligan, anyway!”

So Mrs. Trapes brewed the tea, while Ravenslee gazed at Hermione again, at her shapely arms, her dimpled elbows, her preoccupied face—a face so serenely, so utterly unaware of his regard, of course, until he chanced to look away, and then—Hermione stole a glance at him.

“There, my dear,” said Mrs. Trapes after a while, “there’s a cup o’ tea as is a cup o’ tea, brewed jest on the b’ile, in a hot pot, and drawed to perfection! Set right down an’ drink it, slow an’ deliberate. Tea ain’t meant to be swallowed down careless, like a man does his beer! An’ why?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, as they sipped the fragrant beverage, all three, “why ain’t you out with your precious—peanuts, Mr. Geoffrey?”

Ravenslee set down his cup and turned to Hermione.

“Mrs. Trapes has told you, I think, that I am become—er—an itinerant vendor of the ubiquitous peanut—”

“Mr. Geoffrey!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, gulping a mouthful of hot tea and blinking, “I never did! Never in all my days would I allow myself such expressions—Mr. Geoffrey, I’m ashamed at you! An’ that reminds me—it was chicken fricassee, wasn’t it? For your supper, I mean?”

“I believe it was.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Trapes, rising, “I’ll go an’ buy it. Was you wantin’ anything fetched, Hermy?”

“If you wouldn’t mind bringing a bunch of asparagus—”

“Sparrergrass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes in horror-struck tones, “why, it’s anywhere from thirty to sixty cents—”

“But Arthur loves it, dear, and now that he’s working so hard—”

“Arthur likes!” cried Mrs. Trapes indignantly. “Mr. Geoffrey, it’s been Arthur ever since he was born, an’ her scrinchin’ an’ pinchin’ herself for the sake o’ that b’y. O’ course he likes sparrergrass—so do I—but I make shift with pertatoes or cabbidge or carrots—an’ so should he. Come now, Hermy, you take a bunch o’ carrots instead; carrots is healthy an’ cheap! Come now, is that sparrergrass to be carrots or not?”

“Ann, that asparagus is to be—asparagus!”

“Such wicked extravagance, an’ all for that b’y. Hermy, I’m surprised at ye!”

For a long moment after Mrs. Trapes had departed there was silence, while Ravenslee sat gazing where Hermione stood busy at her pastry again.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” said she at last, “I want to thank you for watching over my boy. Arthur told me how good you were to him while I was away. I want you to know how grateful I am—”

“What beautiful hands you have, Hermione—and I shall dream of your arms.”

“My arms?” she repeated, staring.

“They’re so—smooth and white—”

“Oh, that’s flour!” said she, bending over the table.

“And so—round—”

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey! Can’t you find something else to talk about?”

“Why, of course,” he answered, “there are your feet, so slender and shapely—”

“In these frightful old shoes!” she added.

“Worn out mostly in other peoples’ service,” he nodded. “God bless them!”

“They let the wet in horribly when it rains!” she sighed.

“So heaven send us dry weather! Then there is your wonderful hair,” he continued, “so long and soft and—”

“And all bunched up anyhow!” said she, touching the heavy, shining braids with tentative fingers. “Please don’t say any more, Mr. Geoffrey, because I just know I look a sight—I feel it! And in this old gown too—it’s the one I keep to scrub the floors in—”