Archimedes looked at the automaton: a patchwork creation, like it had been built by a half-blind, half-crippled, fully-inept demi-man with claws for hands and a smattering of epilepsy and narcolepsy.  Like Mr Rochambeau, only taller.

“You built this yourself?” he asked the butler.

“Yes sir, in my spare time.  I was going to patent it, but Mr Edison said it was worthless, so I sold him the rights for a penny.”

“As you should,” nodded Archimedes, “Ugly people need not climb social ladders — they would scare the upper classes’ children.  Now then!  Your automaton dreams of a lady?”

“Daisy,” confirmed Mr Rochambeau.

“Well then!  I think it falls upon us to help him win her heart!”

“Thank you, master!” said Elvis suddenly, “For all I want in my unnatural mechanical life is to touch Daisy gently every night as she sleeps!”

“Creepy little bugger, ain’t ya?” noted Finley.