“If you do,” I explained kindly, “you might have trouble in dealing.  The latest tenant of Number 37 was a fluffy poodle who pushed one of two hundred clocks into the front area so that it exploded and blew away the front wall.”  And I outlined the history of that canine clairvoyant, Willy Woolly.  “The Mordaunt Estate is sensitive about his tenants, anyway.  He rents, not on profits, but on prejudice.  Perhaps it would be well for you to flatter him a little; admire his style of house painting.”

Accepting this counsel with suitable expressions, they returned to the charge, addressed the proprietor of Number 37 by his official title and delivered the most gratifying opinions regarding his artistry.

“That,” said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on his knees with brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to them, “is after the R. Noovo style.  I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he’s a bear for color.  Are you artists?”

“We’re house-hunters,” explained the young man.

“As for tenants,” said the Mordaunt Estate, “I take ’em or leave ’em as I like ’em or don’t.  I like you folks.  You got an eye for a tasty bit of colorin’.  Eight rooms, bath, and kitchen.  By the week in case we don’t suit each other.  Very choice and classy for a young married couple.  Eight dollars, in advance.  Prices for R. Noovo dwellings has riz.”

“We’re not married,” said the young man.

“Hey?  Whaddye mean, not married?” demanded that highly respectable institution, the Mordaunt Estate, severely.  His expression mollified as he turned to the butterfly.  “Aimin’ to be, I s’pose.”

“We only met this morning; so we haven’t decided yet,” answered the young man.  “At least,” he added blandly, as his companion seemed to be struggling for utterance, “she hasn’t informed me of her decision, if she has made it.”

Bewilderment spread like a gray mist across the painty features of the Mordaunt Estate.  “Nothin’ doin’,” he began, “until—­”

“Don’t decide hastily,” adjured the young man.  “Take this coin.”  He forced a half-dollar into the reluctant hand of the decorator.

“Nothin’ doin’ on account, either.  Pay as you enter.”

“Only one of us is going to enter.  The coin decides.  Spin it.  Your call,” he said to the butterfly.

“Heads,” cried the butterfly.

“Tails,” proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into silence on the flagging.

“Then the house is yours,” said the butterfly.  “Good luck go with it.”  She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment.

“I don’t want it,” returned the young man.

“Play fair,” she exhorted him.  “We both agreed solemnly to stand by the toss.  Didn’t we?”

“What did we agree?”

“That the winner should have the choice.”

“Very well.  I won, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did.”

“And I choose not to take the house,” he declared triumphantly.  “It’s a very nice house, but”—­he shaded his eyes as he directed them upon the proud-pied facade, blinking significantly—­“I’d have to wear smoked glasses if I lived in it, and they don’t suit my style of beauty.”