"Artistic intuition," said Peter Quick Banta with profound complacency.
"_I'm_ an artist."



THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES

Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37
and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them.
"Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam," it would pipe pleasantly.

"BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!" solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity.

"Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_! Kung-_glang_!"
That was a duet in the middle register.

Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin
silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny:

"Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!"

We surmised that a retired Swiss bell-ringer had secluded himself in our
remote backwater of the great city to mature fresh combinations of
his art.

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