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