WILLIAM CONGREVE By noon the morning after the supper party, the servants rolled up their sleeves and grimly got to work. Angus MacGregor had to be summoned from the kitchen to help decant the bodies out into the street. Half-dressed men and women cursed him roundly, but he swore at them in Gaelic and brandished his meat cleaver, and soon the house appeared to be clear of guests. Then there was the disgusting mess of brimming chamber pots, filthy floors, remains of food, and broken glass to be cleared. Manuel had disappeared again. He was not in the attic room he shared with MacGregor, nor was he downstairs. ‘Probably sleeping at the end of his master’s bed like a bleeding dawg,’ muttered Joseph, who had lost his refined accents during all the work. He picked up a soiled garter from under the dining table and threw it on the fire. It was a good thing Lizzie was busy at the sink washing dishes and glasses, thought Joseph. The leavings of the guests were enough to corrupt any young girl’s mind.
