It stood at right angles to a road much used by motorists because of its beauty, and hidden from it by trees on the top of a slope of green fields scattered over with live oaks that gently descended down towards the sea.  Its back windows, and those parts of it that a house is ashamed of, were close up to a thick grove of eucalyptus which continued to the foot of the mountains.  It had an overrun little garden in front, separated from the fields by a riotous hedge of sweetbriar.  It had a few orange, and lemon, and peach trees on its west side, the survivors of what had once been intended for an orchard, and a line of pepper trees on the other, between it and the road.  Neglected roses and a huge wistaria clambered over its dilapidated face.  Somebody had once planted syringas, and snowballs, and lilacs along the inside of the line of pepper trees, and they had grown extravagantly and were an impenetrable screen, even without the sweeping pepper trees from the road.

It hadn’t been lived in for years, and it was well on in decay, being made of wood, but the situation was perfect for The Open Arms.  Every motorist coming up that road would see the signboard outside the pepper trees, and would certainly want to stop at the neat little gate, and pass through the flowery tunnel that would be cut through the syringas, and see what was inside.  Other houses were offered of a far higher class, for this one had never been lived in by gentry, said the house-agent endeavouring to put them off a thing so broken down.  A farmer had had it years back, he told them, and instead of confining himself to drinking the milk from his own cows, which was the only appropriate drink for a farmer the agent maintained—­he was the president of the local Anti-Vice-In-All-Its-Forms League—­he put his money as he earned it into gin, and the gin into himself, and so after a bit was done for.

The other houses the agent pressed on them were superior in every way except situation; but situation being the first consideration, Mr. Twist agreed with the twins, who had fallen in love with the neglected little house whose shabbiness was being so industriously hidden by roses, that this was the place, and a week later it and its garden had been bought—­Mr. Twist didn’t tell the twins he had bought it, in order to avoid argument, but it was manifestly the simple thing to do—­and over and round and through it swarmed workmen all day long, like so many diligent and determined ants.  Also, before the week was out, the middle-aged lady had been found and engaged, and a cook of gifts in the matter of cakes.  This is the way you do things in America.  You decide what it is that you really want, and you start right away and get it.  “And everything so cheap too!” exclaimed the twins gleefully, whose L200 was behaving, it appeared, very like the widow’s cruse.

This belief, however, received a blow when they went without Mr. Twist, who was too busy now for any extra expeditions, to choose and buy chintzes, and it was finally shattered when the various middle-aged ladies who responded to Mr. Twist’s cry for help in the advertising columns of the Acapulco and Los Angeles press one and all demanded as salary more than the whole Twinkler capital.