“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 chimneys stand up—­”

“I know,” cried Celia.  “The dog’s collar.”

“Right, Watson.  And the name of the house is Stopes.”

She repeated it to herself with a frown.

“What a disappointing name,” she said.  “Just Stopes.”

“Stopes,” I said.  “Stopes, Stopes.  If you keep on saying it, a certain old-world charm seems to gather round it.  Stopes.”

“Stopes,” said Celia.  “It is rather jolly.”

We said it ten more times each, and it seemed the only possible name for it.  Stopes—­of course.

“Well!” I asked.

“We must write to Mr. Barlow,” said Celia decisively. “’Dear Mr. Barlow, er—­Dear Mr. Barlow—­we—­’ Yes, it will be rather difficult.  What do we want to say exactly?”

“‘Dear Mr. Barlow—­May we have your house?’”

“Yes,” smiled Celia, “but I’m afraid we can hardly ask for it.  But we might rent it when—­when he doesn’t want it any more.”