He was impervious to reason. I made him promise never to say a word to me about his disgusting fatness again whatever happened—never, and then I handed him that little piece of skin.
“It's nasty stuff,” I said.
“No matter,” he said, and took it.
He goggled at it. “But—but—” he said.
He had just discovered that it wasn't English.
“To the best of my ability,” I said, “I will do you a translation.”
I did my best. After that we didn't speak for a fortnight. Whenever he approached me I frowned and motioned him away, and he respected our compact, but at the end of a fortnight he was as fat as ever. And then he got a word in.
“I must speak,” he said. “It isn't fair. There's something wrong. It's done me no good. You're not doing your great-grandmother justice.”
“Where's the recipe?”
He produced it gingerly from his pocket-book.