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 fluffy poodle who pushed one of two hundred clocks into the front area so that it exploded and blew away the front wall." And I outlined the history of that canine clairvoyant, Willy Woolly. "The Mordaunt Estate is sensitive about his tenants, anyway. He rents, not on profits, but on prejudice. Perhaps it would be well for you to flatter him a little; admire his style of house painting." Accepting this counsel with suitable expressions, they returned to the charge, addressed the proprietor of Number 37 by his official title and delivered the most gratifying opinions regarding his artistry. "That," said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on his knees with brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to them, "is after the R. Noovo style. I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he's a bear for color. Are you artists?" "We're house-hunters," explained the young man.