They say he died with a smile on his face. Potty, I mean. Well, I'll spare the Groby Tree for the duration. But if my husband thinks he can throw me over for that scrub-faced ladies' champion of the regular bowel movement... He's the only man who perhaps wouldn't. And he'll go to heaven for it. You say that because you think of God as an English landowner on a colossal scale, who never leaves his study, so is invisible. Well, if Christopher's not in heaven when the war's over, he won't be in Gray's Inn, not with Little Miss Hockey sticks on my furniture I'll strip the place. What is it? I said I'll come up! I'm sorry, madam. Come on.