we are come to it, Celia is always in a pink sunbonnet gathering
roses lovingly, and I, not very far off, am speaking strongly to somebody
or other about something I want done. By-and-by I shall go into the
library and work ... with an occasional glance through the open window at
Celia.

To think that a month ago we were quite happy with a few pink geraniums!

Sunday, a month ago, was hot. "Let's take train somewhere," said Celia,
"and have lunch under a hedge."

"I know a lovely place for hedges," I said.

"I know a lovely tin of potted grouse," said Celia, and she went off to
cut some sandwiches. By twelve o'clock we were getting out of the train.

The first thing we came to was a golf course, and Celia had to drag me
past it. Then we came to a wood, and I had to drag her through it.
Another mile along a lane, and then we both stopped together.

"Oh!" we said.

It was a cottage, the cottage of a dream. And by a cottage I mean, not
four plain rooms and a kitchen, but one surprising room opening into
another; rooms all on different levels and of different shapes, with
delightful places to bump your head on; open fireplaces; a large square
hall, oak-beamed, where your guests can hang about after breakfast, while
deciding whether to play golf or sit in the garden. Yet all so cunningly
disposed that from outside it looks only a cottage or, at most, two
cottages persuaded into one.

And, of course, we only saw it from outside. The little drive, determined
to get there as soon as possible, pushed its way straight through an
old barn, and arrived at the door simultaneously with the flagged
lavender walk for the humble who came on foot. The rhododendrons were
ablaze beneath the south windows; a little orchard was running wild on
the west; there was a hint at the back of a clean-cut lawn. Also, you
remember, there was a golf course, less than two miles away.

"Oh," said Celia with a deep sigh, "but we must live here."

An Irish terrier ran out to inspect us. I bent down and patted it. "With
a dog," I added.

"Isn't it all lovely? I wonder who it belongs to, and if--"

"If he'd like to give it to us."

"Perhaps he would if he saw us and admired us very much," said Celia
hopefully.

"I don't think Mr. Barlow is that sort of man," I said. "An excellent
fellow, but not one to take these sudden fancies."

"Mr. Barlow? How do you know his name?"

"I have these surprising intuitions," I said modestly. "The way the