So I tied my hair up in a handkerchief, put on a nightgown to protect my dress, and laid down comfortably on the hearthrug with my head up the chimney. At intervals I waved a bit of liver at the kitten and said in my most persuasive manner, ’Littlekittycatpoorpussycometomissusdidums.’ This seemed to entertain the kitten very much as it responded by rubbing its back violently against the chimney and incidentally dislodging a good deal of soot over me, while it sniffed ecstatically at the liver. ’Goodness,’ said Ross, bursting like a cyclone into the room, ’what a sight you look; is that kitten still there? Mr Williams is downstairs. Are you giving that little beast meat, Meg; how many times have I warned you that it’s illegal to give rations to rodents.’ ’It isn’t a rodent,’ I said, sitting up in the fireplace, ’and it’s not rations either, it’s offal.’ A frozen look of horror slowly overspread my brother’s open countenance. ’Offal,’ he queried, ’could it _possibly_ have been offal you said?’ ’Yes,’ and I began to get little creeps down my spine as I did as a child when I’d been naughty, ’it’s offal, edible offal.’ ’The word "edible" does not excuse the word offal.’ ’They call it that in the _Times_,’ I said meekly. ’There are many things in the _Times_ which it is better not to repeat in polite society, Margaret.’ ’I don’t call your society polite, far from it,’ I rejoined. ’What does Mr Williams want?’ ’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.’