subject in which he would not be constantly reminded of soap—to devote himself to the History of the Thebaid when this cousin died suddenly and precipitated responsibilities upon him. In the frankness of conviviality, Moggs bewailed the uncongenial task thus thrust into his hands, and my uncle offered to lighten his burden by a partnership then and there. They even got to terms—extremely muzzy terms, but terms nevertheless.
Each gentleman wrote the name and address of the other on his cuff, and they separated in a mood of brotherly carelessness, and next morning neither seems to have thought to rescue his shirt from the wash until it was too late. My uncle made a painful struggle—it was one of my business mornings—to recall name and particulars.
"He was an aquarium-faced, long, blond sort of chap, George, with glasses and a genteel accent," he said.
I was puzzled. "Aquarium-faced?"
"You know how they look at you. His stuff was soap, I'm pretty nearly certain. And he had a name. And the thing was the straightest Bit-of-All-Right you ever. I was clear enough to spot that . . ."
We went out at last with knitted brows, and wandered up into Finsbury seeking a good, well-stocked looking grocer. We called first on a chemist for a pick-me-up for my uncle, and then we found the shop we needed.
"I want," said my uncle, "half a pound of every sort of soap you got. Yes, I want to take them now. . . . Wait a moment, George. . . . Now whassort of soap d'you call that?"
At the third repetition of that question the young man said, "Moggs' Domestic."
