"So do I," agreed Foster, dog-trotting behind them, slightly out of breath. "It's so nice and fancy; that's what I like about it. It's got so much stuff. I think it's suave."
Portia turned to beam at him. "And you know what you are? You're a wonderful boy," she told him.
"Big deal," Foster said, embarrassed.
They slowed down, for they were near the house. It towered above them, very large and quiet, very old. The great porch that ran halfway around it was supported by pillars set with cobblestones that reminded one of monstrous chunks of peanut brittle. The unpruned vine hung down in portieres from the eaves of the porch, and on its rotting floor were drifts of leaves. It was a dark, unfriendly thing, and even Portia thought she would not miss it when they took it away.
"But what will happen to the owls that used to nest here?" she asked.
"Oh, they'll find another site," Julian said. "If there's one thing you don't have to worry about, it's owls."
The slow grownups caught up with them at last, armed with their peaceable weapons.
"We'll try the back door first," Mr. Blake announced. "The front one might as well be turned to stone. We may have to blast!"
"Why can't we just climb in the window, the way we did last year?" Foster wanted to know. He would have preferred this course.
"It's boarded up again, too, remember? And anyway we can't just go flitting in and out of odd openings all the time like—like swallows," his father said. "We need a door. Like people."