'Oh, my angel, he wants a lot of things: a shave, for instance, and a bath and a clean collar, and his clothes brushed, and his nails cut, and snow-white flowers against his hair, and a heap of things like that.'
'I expect he's very poor,' I said, waving the liver at Fitzbattleaxe.
'Unless he's behind with his water rate, he could have most of his present needs supplied by turning on the tap. He's asked to see you.'
'Well, I can't see him like this, can I?'
'You certainly can't. You look like the back of a cab, Meg!'
'Do tell me sensibly what he says,' I implored.
Ross pulled his mouth down at the corners, closed his eyes and put his hands together as if in prayer. '"My dear wife is laid aside with an internal chill, she is, therefore, unable to be present at the class for female confirmation candidates this afternoon, and as the vicar is away, I ventured to think that Mrs Ellsley might be good enough to speak a few words of exhortation in her place, hymn 547, let us pray."'
'How can you be so absurd?' I said.
'Oh, why do curates talk like that? Why can't this man wash? Why can't he be modern and human? Why can't he say, "Hallo, old bean, my wife ain't in the pink, got a pain in her breadbasket or something. Priceless washout, too, as it's her turn to spout to the gals. Just blew in to see if your sister would help me out of a hole and come and do a pi-jaw stunt, what!"'
Here my disgusting twin retched realistically into the soap dish, murmuring 'He makes me sick.'