“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!”