The Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more comfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead were quite cool--a discovery that filled her with delight--cried a little more, and then applied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin dry toast.
While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful heart, very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made herself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough.

When the Marchioness had finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and brought him some crisp slices and a great basin of weak tea, with which (she said) the doctor had left word he might refresh himself when he awoke.

She propped him up with pillows, if not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all her life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with unutterable satisfaction while the patient--stopping every now and then to shake her by the hand--took his poor meal with an appetite and relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth, under any other circumstances, would have failed to provoke.

Having cleared away, and disposed everything comfortably about him again, she sat down at the table to take her own tea.
'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally ?' The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head.
'What, haven't you seen her lately ?' said Dick.
'Seen her!' cried the small servant.

'Bless you, I've run away!' Mr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so remained for about five minutes.