Even assuming that Gwladys was also the Little One, it was obvious that Dicky had not yet cleared his second fence. I began vaguely to calculate what a healthy child should weigh. A thirty-pound salmon, for instance--how would that compare with a fat baby? But Dicky made a final and really brilliant effort. "Fourteen point eight," he said promptly. "I beg your pardon?" replied Mrs. Botley-Markham. "Fourteen point eight cubic centimetres," repeated The Freak in a firm voice. "That is the metric system of weights and measures. It is the only accurate and scientific method. All the big doctors have taken to it, you will find. I never allow any other to be employed where Gwladys is concerned. I strongly advise you," he added earnestly, "to have Babs weighed in the same manner. Everybody’s doing it now," he concluded lyrically. Mrs. Botley-Markham quivered with pleasure. An opportunity of getting ahead of the fashion does not occur to us every day. "I will certainly take your advice, dear Sir Arthur," she replied. "Tell me, where does one get it done?" "At the British Museum, between seven and eight in the morning," replied The Freak, whose pheasant was growing cold. "And now, dear lady, tell me everything that you have been doing lately." Mrs. Botley-Markham, being nothing loath, launched forth. She even found time to re-include me in the conversation, disturbing my meditations upon the strenuous awakening which awaited poor Babs upon the morrow with an enquiry as to whether my canal was to contain salt water or fresh. But she had not finished with Dicky yet. Suddenly she turned upon him, and remarked point-blank:-- "How pleased the Stantons will be!" "Indeed, yes!" replied The Freak enthusiastically. At the sound of his voice I trembled. We had reached the dessert, and with port in sight, so to speak, it was impossible to tell what foolishness he might not commit. "In fact," he continued shamelessly, "I happen to know that they are not merely pleased but ecstatic. I saw them yesterday." "Where?" asked Mrs. Botley-Markham. "Dear lady," replied Dicky, smiling, "where does one invariably meet the Stantons?" "You mean at the Archdeacon’s?" said Mrs. Botley-Markham. "I do," said my reprobate friend. "They had all been down the Str--I mean to the Pan-Mesopotamian Conference," he added quite gratuitously. "Ah, of course; they would," assented Mrs. Botley-Markham hazily, evidently wondering whether she ought to have heard of the Pan-Mesopotamian Conference. "Were they all there?" "All but the delicate one," replied The Freak, abandoning all restraint. "Do you mean Isobel?" "Yes," replied the graceless Richard--"I do. Poor Isobel!" he added gently. "I am afraid they are not a strong family," said Mrs. Botley-Markham, with a sympathetic glance which rather alarmed me. I foresaw complications. The Freak wagged his head gloomily. "No; a weak strain, I fear."