Of the Lady’s Chamber
through more changes of embarrassment than I could reckon upon paper.
“Prythee, get your breath, Sir Charles,” cried her ladyship, appealingly, “an’ your chest be so bad again. But tell ’em, tell ’em. Lord! I shall die of this insolence.”
And then at last the old creature, getting his wind, says, stammering, “Odds,” he says, “yes, your ladyship, Sir Paul, for sure.”
“And is’t not my husband?” she says entreating.
“Gadsbobs, of course,” he stutters, “your husband.”
“Swear it to them,” she urges piteously, and as one all in a tremble.
“I’ll swear it,” says he in a fluster.
Her ladyship whipped round upon the traps in a splendid bearing, and regarded them haughtily. But that was enough for Wilkins. He hung his head abashed, and made some sort of amends in a sulky, terrified way. But I paid him no heed, not so much as if he was dirt, and the three fellows slunk out of the room, with their tails curled under ’em, I assure
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