"It may be dyed," I suggested.
George picked up his banjo.
"Such blasphemy," he said, "deserves a heavy punishment. I shall sing you 'Beauty's Eyes.'"
"Is there no option?" I pleaded.
With his thumb on the strings, George paused.
"Yes," he said, "you can wash up."
I did.
Next morning at breakfast George announced his intention of walking over to Chertsey.
"They are taking entries for the regatta," he explained. "And I want to put our names down for the double punting."
"How about getting a couple of insurance policies at the same time?" I suggested. (I have punted with George before.)