*    *    *    *    *

...and Lord Emsworth, wincing, surveyed the man unpleasantly through his pince-nez.
Though not often given to theological speculation, he was wondering why Providence,
if obliged to make head-gardeners, had found it necessary to make them so Scotch.
In the case of Angus McAllister, why, going a step farther, have made a human being at all?
All the ingredients of a first-class mule simply thrown away. He felt that he might
have liked Angus McAllister if he had been a mule.

*    *    *    *    *

Filled with the coward rage that dares to burn but does not dare to blaze,
Lord Emsworth, coughed a cough that was undisguisedly a bronchial white flag.

*    *    *    *    *

She was a small girl, of uncertain age - possibly twelve or thirteen, though a
combination of London fogs and early cares had given her face a sort of wizened
motherliness which in some odd way caused his Lordship from the first to look on her
as belonging to his own generation. She was the type of girl you see in the back streets
carrying a baby nearly as large as herself and still retaining sufficient energy to lead
one little brother by the hand and shout recrimination at another in the distance.

*    *    *    *    *

A bitter, mirthless laugh from the poor peon thus ludicrously described drowned the
rest of the sentence.

*    *    *    *    *

Lord Emsworth breathed heavily. He had not supposed that in these degenerate days
a family like this existed. The sister copped Angus McAllister on the shin with stones,
the brother bit Constance in the leg...It was like listening to some grand old saga
of the exploits of heroes and demigods.

*    *    *    *    *