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."

"'Dear Mr. Barlow,'" I amended, "'have you any idea when you're going to
die?' No, that wouldn't do either. And there's another thing--we don't
know his initials, or even if he's a 'Mr.' Perhaps he's a knight or a--a
duke. Think how offended Duke Barlow would be if we put '---- Barlow,
Esq.' on the envelope."

"We could telegraph. 'Barlow. After you with Stopes.'"

"Perhaps there's a young Barlow, a Barlowette or two with expectations.
It may have been in the family for years."

"Then we--Oh, let's have lunch." She sat down and began to undo the
sandwiches. "Dear o' Stopes," she said with her mouth full.

We lunched outside Stopes. Surely if Earl Barlow had seen us he would
have asked us in. But no doubt his dining-room looked the other way;
towards the east and north, as I pointed out to Celia, thus being
pleasantly cool at lunch-time.

"Ha, Barlow," I said dramatically, "a time will come when _we_ shall be
lunching in there, and _you_--bah!" And I tossed a potted-grouse sandwich
to his dog.

However, that didn't get us any nearer.

"Will you _promise,"_ said Celia, "that we shall have lunch in there one
day?"

"I promise," I said readily. That gave me about sixty years to do
something in.

"I'm like--who was it who saw something of another man's and wouldn't be
happy till he got it?"

"The baby in the soap advertisement."

"No, no, some king in history."

"I believe you are thinking of Ahab, but you aren't a bit like him,
really. Besides, we're not coveting Stopes. All we want to know is, does
Barlow ever let it in the summer?"

"That's it," said Celia eager