"I have these surprising intuitions," I said modestly. "The way the chimneys stand up——"
"I know," cried Celia. "The dog's collar."
"Right, Watson. And the name of the house is Stopes."
She repeated it to herself with a frown.
"What a disappointing name," she said. "Just Stopes."
"Stopes," I said. "Stopes, Stopes. If you keep on saying it, a certain old-world charm seems to gather round it. Stopes."
"Stopes," said Celia. "It is rather jolly."
We said it ten more times each, and it seemed the only possible name for it. Stopes—of course.
"Well?" I asked.
"We must write to Mr. Barlow," said Celia decisively. "'Dear Mr. Barlow, er——Dear Mr. Barlow,——we——' Yes, it will be rather difficult. What do we want to say exactly?"