“Oh, I hadn’t forgotten. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy a good pantomime. It’s a pity Mrs. Bugbird’s got to go and see her relations over in Putney, because that woman so loves a bit of fun and always laughs so hearty that she’d make any panto a success just by being there.” Mrs. Bugbird, who was in the parlour when Bram and Nancy walked downstairs, was built on an altogether larger scale than Mrs. Pottage. The latter was plump and for her age still remarkably buxom; but she was not noticeably too fat. On the other hand, Mrs. Bugbird’s immense face crowned a really massive campanulate base. When she laughed, which was practically all the time, her little eyes kept bubbling up out of her cheeks and then apparently bursting as they were once more swallowed up by the rolls of fat. This likeness to bursting bubbles was accentuated by the drops of moisture that during her spasms of mirth kept trickling down Mrs. Bugbird’s cheeks, so that she had from time to time to wipe them away with an extensive red silk handkerchief on which was printed in bright yellow a view of the Pool of London. A feature of Mrs. Pottage’s best parlour was one of those Victorian triple chairs, two of which were occupied by Mr. Hopkins and Mr. Watcher. This meant that they were practically sitting back to back, an attitude which did nothing to allay the rumour of their mutual lack of esteem. Sitting thus, with their polished bald heads, they looked like two boiled eggs in a china stand. No doubt, Mrs. Bugbird had perceived this ridiculous resemblance, for every time she threw a glance in the direction of the two rivals her eyes bubbled in and out with the rapidity of soda-water. The outward appearance of Mr. Breadcutt, the inspector of nuisances, bore no signs of his profession; indeed he looked as tolerant and as genial a man as one might expect to meet in a month. Perhaps the nuisances were ferreted out by Mrs. Breadcutt, an angular woman with a pair of intelligent, pink-rimmed eyes, who sat up on the edge of her chair like an attentive bull-terrier. The party was completed by Agatha Wilkinson. “Well, now we’re all here, what game shall we play?” Mrs. Pottage asked expansively. “Kiss in the ring,” Mr. Breadcutt suggested without a moment’s hesitation. Whereupon Mr. Hopkins and Mr. Watcher both scowled, the one at the ceiling, the other at the floor, while Mrs. Bugbird rocked backward and forward in a convulsion of irrepressible mirth. “George,” said Mrs. Breadcutt sharply. “Yes, my dear?” “Behave yourself, even if it is Christmas. You ought to know better at your age than suggest such a game in a little room like this.” “That’s just why I did suggest it,” Mr. Breadcutt retorted. “I’d have a chance of catching Mrs. Pottage and helping myself to a good one.”