He helped the child to impossible viands, much to my wife's dismay, and told her apocalyptic stories of Bulgaria, somewhat to her puzzledom, but wholly to her delight.

But when he proposed to fill her silver mug (which he, as godfather, had given her on her baptism) with the liquefied dream of Paradise that Barbara, _sola mortalium_, can prepare, consisting of hock and champagne and fruits and cucumber and borage and a blend of liqueurs whose subtlety transcends human thought, Barbara's Medusa glare petrified him into a living statue, the crystal jug of joy poised in his hand.
"Why mayn't I have some, mummy ?" "Because Uncle Jaff's your godfather," said I."And your mother's hock-cup is a sinful lust of the flesh.

Spare the child and fill up your own glass." "Don't you know," said Barbara, "that this is Berkshire, not the Balkans?
We don't intoxicate infants here to make a summer holiday!" At this rebuke he exchanged winks with my daughter, and refusing a handed dish of cutlets asked to be allowed to help himself to some cold beef on the sideboard.

The butler's assistance he declined.

No Christian butler could carve for Jaffery Chayne.