“I don’t think you’re likely to find anything so good as that house,” Maurice said gloomily. “In fact, I know you won’t. I wish I could afford to take it myself. I should, like a shot. Castleton could be at the Temple just as soon from there.”
“I don’t see why he should bother about the Temple,” said Michael. “That house was rather bigger.”
“You’ll never find another house like it,” Maurice prophesied. “Look at this neighborhood we’re driving through now. Impossible to live here!”
They were in the Hampstead Road.
“I haven’t any intention of doing so,” Michael laughed. “But there remains the neighborhood of the canal, the neighborhood you originally suggested. Hampstead was an afterthought.”
“Wonderful house!” Maurice sighed. “I shall always regret you didn’t take it.”
However, when they had paid off the cab, he became interested by the new prospect; and they wandered for a while, peering through fantastic railings at houses upon the steep banks of the canal, houses that seemed to have been stained to a sad green by the laurels planted close around them. Nothing feasible for a lodging was discovered near Regent’s Park; and they crossed St. John’s Wood and Maida Vale, walking on until they reached a point where at the confluence of two branches the canal became a large triangular sheet of water. Occupying the whole length of the base of this triangle and almost level with the water, stood the garden of a very large square house.
“There’s a curious place,” said Michael. “How on earth does one get at it?”
They followed the road, which was considerably higher than the level of the canal, and found that the front door was reached by an entrance down a flight of steps.
“Ararat House,” Michael read.