Sees Uncle Oswald update Little Women
One day in April I was driving my Lagonda convertible through the New England countryside in search of the rarest orchid in the universe, the Snotulosus flatulens, the distilled essence of which would ensure eternal virility, when I ran out of petrol. Taking my crocodile skin suitcase, I knocked at the door of a modest house, where I was made welcome by a Mrs March and her three daughters, Meg, Jo and Amy. Over a bowl of clam chowder, I tried to decide which one to seduce that night. Noticing my interest, the comely Mrs March struck a bet with me after the girls had gone to bed. She would send one of them to my room in the pitch darkness of the night; and if in the morning I could tell her which one it had been, I should have my pick of the rest; if not, then I should settle a million dollars on the poor family. To a swordsman of my reputation there was no choice but to accept the wager.
In the middle of the night, I heard the door handle turn. I shall not go into detail of what followed except to say that not since the battle of Gettysburg the previous year had the earth moved so violently. At the critical moment, the girl in question was seized by a violent fit of coughing.
The next morning at breakfast all three girls wore looks of radiant satisfaction – as did their mother. Just as I was about to guess the identity of my lover, I heard a fit of coughing from upstairs. ‘Oh,’ said Mrs March, ‘I forgot to mention my fourth daughter, Beth. She has a fatal illness. But pray do not alarm yourself. It is not infectious. Except … on the most intimate of connections.’
