Before the Voices came, Number 37 was as quiet a house as any in the Square.  Quieter than most, since it was vacant much of the time and the ceremonious sign of the Mordaunt Estate, “For Rental to Suitable Tenant,” invited inspection.  “Suitable” is the catch in that innocent-appearing legend.  For the Mordaunt Estate, which is no estate at all and never has been, but an ex-butcher of elegant proclivities named Wagboom, prefers to rent its properties on a basis of prejudice rather than profit, and is quite capable of rejecting an applicant as unsuitable on purely eclectic grounds, such as garlic for breakfast, or a glass eye.

How the new tenant had contrived to commend himself to Mr. Mordaunt-Wagboom is something of a mystery.  Probably it was his name rather than his appearance, which was shiny, not to say seedy.  He encountered the Estate when that incorporated gentleman was engaged in painting the front door, and, in a deprecating voice, inquired whether twenty-five dollars a month would be considered.

“Maybe,” returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger introduced himself, with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale.

Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessing aristocratic implications.

“The name,” he pronounced, “is satisfactory.  The sum is satisfactory.  It is, however, essential that the lessor should measure up in character and status to the standards of the Mordaunt Estate.”  This he had adapted from the prospectus of a correspondence school, which had come to him through the mail, very genteelly worded.  “Family man?” he added briskly.

“Yes, sir.”

“How many of you?”

“Two.”

“Wife?”

“No, sir,” said the little man, very low.

“Son?  Daughter?  What age?”

“I have never been blessed with a child.”

“Then who—­”

“Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir.”

For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle, with an important expression, seated behind the railing.

“I don’t like dogs,” said the Mordaunt Estate curtly.

“Willy Woolly”—­Mr. Winslow Merivale addressed his companion—­“this gentleman does not like dogs.”

The Mordaunt Estate felt suddenly convicted of social error.  The feeling deepened when Willy Woolly advanced, reckoned him up with an appraising eye, and, without the slightest loss of dignity, raised himself on his hind legs, offering the gesture of supplication.  He did not, however, droop his paws in the accepted canine style; he joined them, finger tip to finger tip, elegantly and piously, after the manner of the Maiden’s Prayer.

The Estate promptly capitulated.

“Some pup!” he exclaimed.  “When did you want to move in?”

“At once, if you please.”