It's the dream-house, and the Gidger found it!
We have got through a tremendous lot of business since we first saw the cottage, and I hope Michael will think we have done all the sensible things we ought. Ross telegraphed to the lawyers and they sent down a surveyor yesterday afternoon to value it and see it wouldn't tumble down the moment we bought it. The verdict is 'that it will outlast many a modern villa.' I wanted a builder to give me an estimate for doing it up. I asked the owner, who advised me to go to Jones, who had always given her satisfaction. So to Jones I went. He is the quaintest character. His hair and his whiskers grow with such velocity that on a Friday night he is double the size he was the previous Saturday, after his weekly hair-cut. He wears old stained overalls and a battered hat, and altogether looks a most frightful ruffian, the sort of person one would prefer not to meet in a dark lane. But his eyes redeem him, they are so blue and clear. The second time I saw him he said,—
'Have you any relations in the Isle of Man, mum?'
'No,' I said, 'why?'
'Oh, because my wife comes from there, and she was a Miss Ross, and when the captain come to the door yesterday, so nice and friendly like, my wife says to me afterwards, "I do see Uncle John in 'im.'" (How delightful these unexpected relationships are, and I suppose he thinks I call my brother by his surname!)
The house needs very little doing up, but I should like it distempered throughout, and 'Uncle John' says that the alterations I want in 'the domestic offices' can be quite easily managed. Even now I can't describe it. I have a confused impression of beams and panelling, diamond-leaded windows with wreaths of creeper, but, ah, wait till I have filled the sweet old rooms with flowers and oak and firelight and comfy chairs and books and cushions—how Michael will love it—I am intrigued at the prospect of living in Gidger's gorgeous cottage, I shall be so disappointed if the 'black beast' won't buy it.
Charlie Foxhill is home on leave and wired to-day, while I was out, to know if we could give him dinner and a bed to-night. Ross telegraphed to say 'No, but we can give you an apology for the one and a series of lumps for the other.' So dear old Charlie duly arrived—beaming. It's so nice to see all one's pals. He is as amusing as ever, and has the same quaint diffidence, and bubbles over with jokes and absurdities. We asked after his mother.
'Oh, still steeped in saints,' he answered, sighing.
After dinner he started holding on to the mantel-piece with both hands and bending first one knee and then the other.
Ross inquired, with his beautiful natural courtesy, if he were endeavouring to qualify for entrance into the County Asylum, and then Charlie gave one of those absurd answers that veil his real meaning.