They did not know who lived in the house. They did not care. For the moment it was theirs. Leaving the car, they sat on the grass and surveyed their property.
"Of course it is ours," Jean said, "and when you are over there, you can think of it with the moon shining on it."
"I like the sloping roof," her lover took up the refrain, "and the big chimney and the wide windows."
"I can sit on the window seat and watch for you, Derry, and there will be smoke coming out of the chimney on cold days, and a fire roaring on the hearth when you open the door—"
They decided that there ought to be eight rooms—, and they named them. The Log-Fire Room; The Room of Little Feasts; the Place of Pots and Pans—
"That's the first floor," said Jean.
"Yes."
The upper floor was harder—The Royal Suite; The Friendly Boom, for the dream maid of all work; The Spare Chamber—
"My grandmother had a spare chamber," Jean explained, "and I always liked the sound of it, as if she kept her hospitality pressed down and running over—"
Derry, who had written it all by the light of the moon, held his pencil poised. "There is one more," he said, "the little room towards the West—"