The façade of the house comprised three windows and a door--that is to
say, a window and a door on the ground floor and two windows above. The
brickwork was assuredly admirable; James had it "pointed" every few
years. Over the windows the bricks, of special shapes, were arranged as
in a flat arch, with a keystone that jutted slightly. The panes of the
windows were numerous and small; inside, on the sashes, lay long thin
scarlet sausages of red cloth and sawdust, to keep out the draughts. The
door was divided into eight small panels with elaborate beadings, and
over it was a delicate fanlight--one of about a score in Bursley--to
remind the observer of a lost elegance. Between the fanlight and the
upstairs window exactly above it was a rusty iron plaque, with vestiges
in gilt of the word "Phoenix." It had been put there when fire insurance
had still the fancied charm of novelty. At the extremity of the façade
farthest from the door a spout came down from the blue-slate roof. This
spout began with a bold curve from the projecting horizontal spout under
the eaves, and made another curve at the ground into a hollow
earthenware grid with very tiny holes.

Helen looked delicious in the yard, gazing pensively at the slothful
rhododendron while James Ollerenshaw opened his door. She was seen by
two electric cars-full of people, for although James's latchkey was very
highly polished and the lock well oiled, he never succeeded in opening
his door at the first attempt. It was a capricious door. You could not
be sure of opening it any more than Beau Brummel could be sure of tying
his cravat. It was a muse that had to be wooed.

But when it did open you perceived that there were no half measures
about that door, for it let you straight into the house. To open it was
like taking down part of the wall. No lobby, hall, or vestibule behind
that door! One instant you were in the yard, the next you were in the