And so at five o’clock precisely the august and exciting ceremony began in the best bedroom.  A bright fire was burning (the month being December), and the carefully-shaded electric lights were also burning.  A large bath-towel was spread in a convenient place on the floor, and on the towel were two chairs facing each other, and a table.  On one chair was the bath, and on the other was Mrs Blackshaw with her sleeves rolled up, and on Mrs Blackshaw was another towel, and on that towel was Roger (the baby).  On the table were zinc ointment, vaseline, scentless eau de Cologne, Castile soap, and a powder-puff.

Emmie having pretty nearly filled the bath with a combination of hot and cold waters, dropped the floating thermometer into it, and then added more waters until the thermometer indicated the precise temperature proper for a baby’s bath.  But you are not to imagine that Mrs Blackshaw trusted a mere thermometer.  No.  She put her arm in the water up to the elbow.  She reckoned the sensitive skin near the elbow was worth forty thermometers.

Emmie was chiefly an audience.  Mrs Blackshaw had engaged her as a nurse, but she could have taught a nigger-boy to do all that she allowed the nurse to do.  During the bath Mrs Blackshaw and Emmie hated and scorned each other, despite their joy.  Emmie was twice Mrs Blackshaw’s age, besides being twice her weight, and she knew twice as much about babies as Mrs Blackshaw did.  However, Mrs Blackshaw had the terrific advantage of being the mother of that particular infant, and she could always end an argument when she chose, and in her own favour.  It was unjust, and Emmie felt it to be unjust; but this is not a world of justice.

Roger, though not at all precocious, was perfectly aware of the carefully-concealed hostility between his mother and his nurse, and often, with his usual unscrupulousness, he used it for his own ends.  He was sitting upon his mother’s knees toying with the edge of the bath, already tasting its delights in advance.  Mrs Blackshaw undressed the upper half of him, and then she laid him on the flat of his back and undressed the lower half of him, but keeping some wisp of a garment round his equatorial regions.  And then she washed his face with a sponge and the Castile soap, very gently, but not half gently enough for Emmie, nor half gently enough for Roger, for Roger looked upon this part of the business as insulting and superfluous.  He breathed hard and kicked his feet nearly off.

‘Yes, it’s dreadful having our face washed, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Blackshaw, with her sleeves up, and her hair by this time down.  ‘We don’t like it, do we?  Yes, yes.’

Emmie grunted, without a sound, and yet Mrs Blackshaw heard her, and finished that face quickly and turned to the hands.

‘Potato-gardens every day,’ she said.  ’Evzy day-day.  Enough of that, Colonel!’ (For, after all, she had plenty of spirit.) ’Fat little creases!  Fat little creases!  There!  He likes that!  There!  Feet!  Feet!  Feet and legs!  Then our back.  And then whup we shall go into the bath!  That’s it.  Kick!  Kick your mother!’