Gascoigne was the name of the agent we now visited, and he entertained us in the old familiar way. As a matter of course, he had the very house to suit us; in fact, he had a dozen, and he went through them seriatim. But my wife, who during the past month had learned something, managed, by dint of skillful questioning, to lay her hand on the one weak spot which presented itself in all.
"I am afraid they will not do," she said, "but we will look at them all the same."
I sighed; I was in for it once more. A dozen fresh keys, a dozen fresh orders to view--in a word, a wasted, weary week. Mr. Gascoigne drummed with his fingers on his office table, and, after a pause, said:
"I have left the best one to the last."
"Indeed!" said my wife, brightening up.
"The house that cannot fail," said he; "a chance seldom met with--perhaps once in a lifetime. I shall not have it long on my books; it will be snapped up in no time. It possesses singular advantages."
"Where is it?" asked my wife eagerly.
"In Lamb's Terrace, No. 79. Detached and charmingly situated. Ten bedrooms, three reception rooms, two bath rooms, hot and cold water to top floor, commodious kitchen and domestic offices, conservatory, stabling, coach house, coachman's rooms over, two stalls and loose box, large garden well stocked with fruit trees, and two greenhouses."
My wife's eyes sparkled. I also was somewhat carried away, but I soon cooled down. Such an establishment would be far beyond my means.
"To be let on lease?" I inquired.