A beautiful woman, whose face is that of one whose soul is full of peace and joy, passes up the great staircase of the stately mansion of Monksmead. Slowly, because her hand holds that of a chubby youth of five, a picture of sturdy health, strength and happiness. They pass beneath an ancient Sword and the boy wheels to the right, stiffens himself, brings his heels together, and raises a fat little hand to his forehead in solemn salute. The journey is continued without remark until they reach the day nursery, a big, bright room of which a striking feature is the mural decoration in a conventional pattern of entwined serpents, the number of brilliant pictures of snakes, framed and hung upon the walls, and two glass cases, the one containing a pair of stuffed cobras and the other a finely-mounted specimen of a boa-constrictor (which had once been the pride of the heart of a Folkestone taxidermist).
“Go away, Mitthis Beaton,” says the small boy to a white-haired but fresh-looking and comely old dame; “I’se not going to bed till Mummy hath tolded me about ve bwacelet again.”
“But I’ve told you a thousand times, Dammykins,” says the lady.
“Well, now tell me ten hundred times,” replies the young man coolly, and attempts to draw from the lady’s wrist a huge and remarkable bracelet.
This uncommon ornament consists of a great ruby-eyed gold snake which coils around the lady’s arm and which is pierced through every coil by a platinum, diamond-hilted sword, an exact model of the Sword which hangs on the staircase.
“You tell me, Sonny, for a change,” suggests the lady.
“Velly well,” replies the boy…. “Vere was once a Daddy and a hobberell gweat Thnake always bovvered him and followed him about and wouldn’t let him gone to thleep and made him be ill like he had eaten too much sweets, and the doctor came and gave him lotths of meddisnin. Then he had to wun away from the Thnake, but it wunned after him, and it wath jutht going to kill him when Mummy bwoughted the Thword and Daddy killed the Thnake all dead. And I am going to have the Thword when I gwow up, but vere aren’t any more bad Thnakes. They is all good now and Daddy likes vem and I likes vem. Amen.”
“I never said Amen, when I told you the story, Sonny,” remarks the lady.
“Well you can, now I have tolded you it,” permits her son. “It means bus[32]—all finished. Mitthis Beaton thaid tho. And when I am as big as Daddy I’m going to be the Generwal of the Queenth Gweyth and thay ‘Charge!’ and wear the Thword.”
Lucille de Warrenne here smothers conversation in the manner common to worshipping mothers whose prodigies make remarks indicative of marvellous precocity, in fact absolutely unique intelligence.