―Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.

―No, uncle Richie⁠ ⁠…

―Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

―Uncle Richie, really⁠ ⁠…

―Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

―He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

―He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our Chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here; the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

All’erta!