"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.