s newly repaired property at Number 37.

The Mordaunt Estate in person was painting the front wall. The design
which he practiced was based less upon any previsioned concept of art
than upon the purchase, at a price, of a rainbow-end job lot of colors.

The vanners descended, bent on negotiations. Progress was obviously
unsatisfactory, the artist, after brief and chill consideration,
reverting to his toil. Now, tact and discretion are essential in
approaching the Mordaunt Estate, for he is a prickly institution. I was
sure that the newcomers had taken the wrong tack with him.

Discomfiture was in their mien as they withdrew in my direction. I mused
upon my bench, with a metaphysical expression which I have found useful
in such cases. They conferred. They approached. They begged my pardon.
With an effort which can hardly have failed to be effective, I dragged
myself back to the world of actualities and opened languid eyes upon
them. It is possible that I opened them somewhat wider than the normal,
for they fell at once upon the nearer and smaller of the pair, a
butterfly of the most vivid and delightful appearance.

"Is the house with the 'To Let' sign on it really to let, do you know,
sir?" she inquired, adding music to color with her voice.

"So I understand," said I, rising.

"And the party with the yellow nose, who is desecrating the front," put
in the butterfly's companion. "Is he a lunatic or a designer of
barber poles?"

"He is a proud and reserved ex-butcher, named Wagboom, now doing a
limited but high-class business in rentals as the Mordaunt Estate."

"He may be the butcher, but he talks more like the pig. All we could get
out of him was a series of grunts when we addressed him by name."

"Ah, but you used the wrong name. For all business purposes he should be
addressed as the Mordaunt Estate, his duly incorporated title. Wagboom
is an irritant to a haughty property-owner's soul."

"Shall we go back and try a counter-irritant?" asked the young man of
his companion.

"With a view to renting?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"Do you keep dogs?"

"No," said the young man.

"Or clocks by the hundred?"

"Certainly not," answered the butterfly.

"Or bombs?"

Upon their combined and emphatic negative they looked at each other with
a wild surmise which said plainly: "Are they _all_ crazy down here?"

"If you do," I explained kindly, "you might have trouble in dealing. The
latest tenant of Number 37 was a f