Before they were married they had decided to live outside the city.
She wanted a garden and an old house. He did not care where they lived
so long as they lived together. Very proper of him, too. They spent
the last year of their engaged life, the nicest year of some girls'
lives, I have heard--in hunting the place. What they finally settled
on was an old colonial house with a colonnaded front, and a round
tower at each end, standing back from the road, and approached by a
wide circular drive. It was large, substantial, with great
possibilities, and plenty of ground. It had been unoccupied for many
years, and the place had an evil report, and, at the time when they
first saw it, appeared to deserve it.

He had looked it over. The situation was healthy. It was convenient to
the city. He could make it in his car in less than forty-five minutes.
They saw what could be done with the place, and did not concern
themselves with _why_ other people had not cared to live there.
Architects, interior decorators, and landscape gardeners were put to
work on it, and, even before the wedding, the place was well on toward
its habitable stage.

Then they were married, and, quite correctly, went abroad to float in
a gondola on the Grand Canal--together; to cross the Gemmi--together;
to stroll about Pompeii and cross to Capri--together; and then ravage
antiquity shops in Paris--together. They returned in the early days of
a glorious September. The house was ready for its master and mistress
to lay the touch of their personality on it, and put in place the
trophies of their Wedding Journey.

The evil look the house once had was gone.