see how the other flowers are getting on. It is on these days that we
travel to our Castle of Stopes; as the crow flies, fifteen miles away.
Indeed, that is the way we get to it, for it is a castle in the air. And
when 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