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.