e was the first to speak. He said to your aunt,
'God bless my soul, Dahlia, what are you doing here?' To which she
replied, 'Well, if it comes to that, my merry somnambulist, what are
you?' Your uncle then said that he thought there must be burglars in the
house, as he had heard noises."

I nodded again. I could follow the trend. Ever since the scullery window
was found open the year Shining Light was disqualified in the Cesarewitch
for boring, Uncle Tom has had a marked complex about burglars. I can
still recall my emotions when, paying my first visit after he had bars
put on all the windows and attempting to thrust the head out in order to
get a sniff of country air, I nearly fractured my skull on a sort of iron
grille, as worn by the tougher kinds of mediaeval prison.

"'What sort of noises?' said your aunt. 'Funny noises,' said your uncle.
Whereupon Angela--with a nasty, steely tinkle in her voice, the little
buzzard--observed, 'I expect it was Mr. Glossop eating.' And then she did
give me a look. It was the sort of wondering, revolted look a very
spiritual woman would give a fat man gulping soup in a restaurant. The
kind of look that makes a fellow feel he's forty-six round the waist and
has great rolls of superfluous flesh pouring down over the back of his
collar. And, still speaking in the same unpleasant tone, she added, 'I
ought to have told you, father, that Mr. Glossop always likes to have a
good meal three or four times during the night. It helps to keep him
going till breakfast. He has the most amazing appetite. See, he has
practically finished a large steak-and-kidney pie already'."

As he spoke these words, a feverish animation swept over Tuppy. His eyes
glittered with a strange light, and he thumped the bed violently with his
fist, nearly catching me a juicy one on the leg.

"That was what hurt, Bertie. That was what stung. I hadn't so much as
started on that pie. But that's a woman all over."

"The eternal feminine."

"She continued her remarks. 'You've no idea,' she said, 'how Mr. Glossop
loves food. He just lives for it. He always eats six or seven meals a
day, and then starts in again after bedtime. I think it's rather
wonderful.' Your aunt seemed interested, and said it reminded her of a
boa constrictor. Angela said, didn't she mean a python? And then they
argued as to which of the two it was. Your uncle, meanwhile, poking about
with that damned pistol of his till human life wasn't safe in the