Mr. Samuel Stillbottle, notebook in hand, with a look of professional severity upon his pinched features, slowly circumnavigated the drawing-room, making an inventory of the furniture. He was followed, step for step, by the deeply interested Caution and Cure, who, finding the bonds of discipline unusually relaxed, owing to the preoccupation of their elders, had seized an early opportunity of escaping from the region belowstairs in which they were supposed to be enjoying their afternoon siesta, in order to pursue their acquaintance with the gentleman whom they had christened, on sight, "the funny man." They had encountered Mr. Stillbottle in the kitchen, and had conceived a liking for him at once. As appraisers of character their point of view was circumscribed and their judgment immature; but Mr. Stillbottle’s performance at dinner had won their unqualified respect and admiration. They had accordingly decided to spend the rest of their lives in his company, and with that intent in view had laboriously scaled the staircase, and were now doing their best, by a series of ill-timed demonstrations of cordiality, to obstruct their new friend in the execution of his duty. "Chesterfield sofa--two castors loose--one-fifteen," murmured Mr. Stillbottle, plying his pencil. ("Run away, that’s good children.) Me’ogany whatnot"--he slipped his hand round behind the piece of furniture in question--"with deal back, two-ten. Armchair, with off ’ind leg cracked, twelve-and-six. (Run away, that’s little dears. Run away and drown the kitten, or give the canary a shampoo; but don’t stand there starin’ at me like a pair of images. I don’t like it, so don’t do it.) Now for the ’arpsichord!" The harassed Mr. Stillbottle began to examine the Welwyns’ piano. The Cure turned to The Caution. "Funny man!" she reiterated ecstatically. "Yesh," assented The Caution, who suffered from a slight palatal affection. "Funny man! Lesh fight him a little bit!" As an intimation that the approaching combat was to be of the friendliest description, he first smiled seraphically upon Mr. Stillbottle (who was looking the other way at the moment), and then dealt that gentleman a well-directed blow in the back of each knee simultaneously with his pudgy fists. Mr. Stillbottle, who, owing to his ignorance of infantile patois, was entirely unprepared for this onslaught, promptly fell head-first into the arm-chair with the damaged hind leg, reducing its value by a further one-and-ninepence. Before he could extricate himself his enraptured admirers had conceived and partially put into execution the happy design of tickling him to death.