―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!
He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria di sortita . The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.
His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.
This wind is sweeter.