“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—­”

“So you shall, Mrs. Trapes, if you will.  You are precisely the kind of housekeeper I need.”

“What—­me?”

“You, Mrs. Trapes.  A lonely bachelor needs some one to—­er take care of his servants for him, to see they don’t overeat themselves too often; or—­er—­strain themselves spring-cleaning out of season—­or—­”

“But you got a wife t’ do all that for you.  I guess Hermy’ll know how to manage.”

“Hermione!” said Ravenslee, starting, “wife?  Am I really—­married?”

“Sure!  Didn’t she go an’ let you wed her when we all thought you was dyin’?”

“Oh, did she?” said he very gently.  “Why then, it—­it wasn’t all a dream?”

“Mr. Geoffrey, Hermy’s been Mrs. Ravenslee, your lawful wedded wife, just exactly four weeks.”

Ravenslee stared up at the ceiling, dreamy-eyed.

“Good heavens!” he murmured.  “I thought I’d only dreamed it.”

“Hermy’s watched over you night an’ day a’most—­like th’ guardian angel she is—­prayin’ f’ you, workin’ f’ you, fightin’ death away from you.  Oh, I guess it’s her fault as you’re alive this day!  Anyway, her an’ you’s man an’ wife till death do you part.”

“But death—­hasn’t, you see.”

“An’ death sure ain’t goin’ to—­yet.”

“No, I’m—­I’m very much alive still, it seems.”

“You sure are, glory be t’ th’ Lord of Hosts to who I have also petitioned frequent on your behoof.  An’ now I’ll call th’ doctor.”

“No, no—­not Dennison; let me see her first.  Can’t I speak to Hermione first, Mrs. Trapes?”