At first, after repeated and urgent requests, he was allowed to sit by the window in a dressing-gown. Then he was allowed to get partly dressed and to ramble about the house in carpet-slippers. At last he was permitted to venture into the garden. There, for some days, his adventures ended. His four benevolent Delilahs had the felicity of watching their captive-man, pottering in the sunshine, watering the grass and tying up the flowers, while leaves tapped against the walls and birds flew over him. They were terribly afraid that presently he would contemplate an exodus. It was so very long since they had had anything to do with men--they had almost forgotten what things amused them. In those far-off days when the world was young and lovers were frequent, they had played and sung a little. But the drawing-room was faded, their songs were out of date, the piano was out of tune, and their voices----. Perhaps those lovers had never really cared for their singing; appearing to care had afforded an excuse for sitting close to the singers, as they turned the pages of their music. Mr. Waffles mustn't be allowed to get dull--that would be fatal. They asked him if he would be so good as to keep an eye on the cats--to see that they didn't pounce on any of the birds who made a home in their garden. Mr. Waffles promised. But the cats still stole along the wall and crept through the bushes, unmolested by the weary gentleman in carpet-slippers. Something had to be done. The case grew desperate. The four gray sisters hunted through their father's library and searched out books--Dickens' novels in paper-covers, issued in parts at a time when a new character from Boz was more exciting than a new comet hurled through the night from the unseen shores of eternity. Dickens left Mr. Waffles cold; his tastes were not literary. He fell asleep with _David Copperfield_ face-down beside his chair, while the sunlight played leap-frog with the shadows across the lawn. He had to be amused. Providence sent a diversion. Seated beneath the apple tree, where the shrubbery began, Miss Florence was assuring her Samson for the hundredth time of how glad she and her sisters were to have him with them. To enforce the sincerity of her words, she had stretched out her hand to touch him--had almost touched him--when a shocked voice exclaimed, “What the devil! What the devil! Poor father! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” Miss Florence jumped back from Mr. Waffles. Had he accused her? She saw that his lips were not moving--that in fact, he was as surprised as herself. Both looked slowly round. Their astonished glances found nothing more perturbing than the innocent greenness of the garden and the noiseless hopping of birds. The voice came again, maliciously strident. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What the devil! What the devil!”