to have leave to look at it. But I must do it room by room. Come down
with me and look at the dining-room. You must be hungry after your
journey."

It really was furnished in a marvellous way--nothing flash, and
everything magnificent. The carpet was so rich that my feet seemed to
sink into it as into deep moss. The soup was on the table, and Mrs.
Cullingworth sitting down, but he kept hauling me round to look at
something else.

"Go on, Hetty," he cried over his shoulder. "I just want to show Munro
this. Now, these plain dining-room chairs, what d'you think they cost
each? Eh, what?"

"Five pounds," said I at a venture.

"Exactly!" he cried, in great delight; "thirty pounds for the six. You
hear, Hetty! Munro guessed the price first shot. Now, my boy, what for
the pair of curtains?"

They were a magnificent pair of stamped crimson velvet, with a two-foot
gilt cornice above them. I thought that I had better not imperil my
newly gained reputation by guessing.

"Eighty pounds!" he roared, slapping them with the back of his hand.
"Eighty pounds, Munro! What d'ye think of that? Everything that I
have in this house is going to be of the best. Why, look at this
waiting-maid! Did you ever see a neater one?"

He swung the girl, towards me by the arm.

"Don't be silly, Jimmy," said Mrs. Cullingworth mildly, while he
roared with laughter, with all his fangs flashing under his
bristling moustache. The girl edged closer to her mistress, looking
half-frightened and half-angry.

"All right, Mary, no harm!" he cried. "Sit down, Munro, old chap. Get a
bottle of champagne, Mary, and we'll drink to more luck."

Well, we had a very pleasant little dinner. It is never slow if
Cullingworth is about. He is one of those men who make a kind of
magnetic atmosphere, so that you feel exhilarated and stimulated in
their presence. His mind is so nimble and his thoughts so extravagant,
that your own break away from their usual grooves, and surprise you
by their activity. You feel pleased at your own inventiveness and
originality, when you are really like the wren when it took a lift on
the eagle's shoulder. Old Peterson, you remember, used to have a similar
effect upon you in the Linlithgow days.

In the middle of dinner he plunged off, and came back with a round bag
about the size of a pomegranate in his hand.

"What d'ye think this is, Munro? Eh?"

"I have no idea."

"Our day's take. Eh, Hetty?" He undid a string, and in an in