"Hardly that, I think," Clara ventured to say. "You see, in that case, he couldn't well be alive----" "Couldn't well be alive!" the old lady contemptuously repeated. "He's as lively as you and me put together! Why, if drawing a map in the dust--with one's wooden leg--doesn't prove one to be alive, perhaps you'll kindly mention what _does_ prove it!" Clara did not see her way out of it. Logic had never been her _forte_. "To return to the arithmetic," Mad Mathesis resumed--the eccentric old lady never let slip an opportunity of driving her niece into a calculation--"what percentage do you suppose must have lost all four--a leg, an arm, an eye, and an ear?" "How _can_ I tell?" gasped the terrified girl. She knew well what was coming. "You can't, of course, without _data_," her aunt replied: "but I'm just going to give you----" "Give her a Chelsea bun, Miss! That's what most young ladies likes best!" The voice was rich and musical, and the speaker dexterously whipped back the snowy cloth that covered his basket, and disclosed a tempting array of the familiar square buns, joined together in rows, richly egged and browned, and glistening in the sun. "No, sir! I shall give her nothing so indigestible! Be off!" The old lady waved her parasol threateningly: but nothing seemed to disturb the good-humour of the jolly old man, who marched on, chanting his melodious refrain:-- [Music: Chel-sea buns! Chel-sea buns hot! Chel-sea buns! Pi-ping hot! Chel-sea buns hot! Chel-sea buns!] "Far too indigestible, my love!" said the old lady. "Percentages will agree with you ever so much better!" Clara sighed, and there was a hungry look in her eyes as she watched the basket lessening in the distance: but she meekly listened to the relentless old lady, who at once proceeded to count off the _data_ on her fingers. "Say that 70 per cent. have lost an eye--75 per cent. an ear--80 per cent. an arm--85 per cent. a leg--that'll do it beautifully. Now, my dear, what percentage, _at least_, must have lost all four?" No more conversation occurred--unless a smothered exclamation of "Piping hot!" which escaped from Clara's lips as the basket vanished round a corner could be counted as such--until they reached the old Chelsea mansion, where Clara's father was then staying, with his three sons and their old tutor. Balbus, Lambert, and Hugh had entered the house only a few minutes before them. They had been out walking, and Hugh had been propounding a difficulty which had reduced Lambert to the depths of gloom, and had even puzzled Balbus. "It changes from Wednesday to Thursday at midnight, doesn't it?" Hugh had begun. "Sometimes," said Balbus, cautiously. "Always," said Lambert, decisively. "_Sometimes_," Balbus gently insisted. "Six midnights out of seven, it changes to some other name." "I meant, of course," Hugh corrected himself, "when it _does_ change from Wednesday to Thursday, it does it at midnight--and _only_ at midnight."