the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together would permit,
to give her an austere and censorious look.

She didn't seem to get it.

"Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!" she cried, in a voice that hit me between
the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.

If Aunt Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a _vis-à-vis_
as if he were somebody half a mile away whom she had observed riding
over hounds. A throwback, no doubt, to the time when she counted the day
lost that was not spent in chivvying some unfortunate fox over the
countryside.

I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time it
registered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend
to personalities.

"Don't blink at me in that obscene way," she said. "I wonder, Bertie,"
she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed
at some newt that was not up to sample, "if you have the faintest
conception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy
scene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you were
out on the tiles last night?"

"I attended a social function, yes," I said coldly. "Pongo Twistleton's
birthday party. I couldn't let Pongo down. _Noblesse oblige_."

"Well, get up and dress."