“We came about the houses,” went on Patricia, indicating the notice-board. “Be you from the agents?” asked Mr. Tebbits suspiciously. “No. We were just passing, and we thought. . . .” “Well, that’s a good thing.” The old man smiled grimly. “Because I won’t have no more agents. They be all robbers, it seems to me. Now what sort of a house was you looking for, missis? I asks because it’s no good a wasting your time if you wants the sort of house I hasn’t got. There be two of ’em, one’s a bit cottage-like and t’other’s bigger. But they bain’t neither of ’em what you’d call big.” “Are they a long way away?” interrupted Patricia. “Well, missis, one is middling far and t’other’s quite close. Sunflowers—that’s the name of the bigger one and a silly name it be, to my way of thinking, because there bain’t never a sunflower near it—her’s just up the road. T’other. . . .” “Could we go and see it, do you think?” Patricia interrupted again. “Aye. If you’ll bide a minute, I’ll just go and get my cap.” He disappeared into the house; re-appeared. “Now if you’ll drive on slowly, missis, I’ll follow you. ’Tis the first house you comes to on the left hand side of the road. ’Bout a hundred and fifty yards down, two hundred mebbe.” Mr. Tebbits declined a lift, and they motored on without him; rounded a bend in the hedge-rows; and saw in front of them, half hidden by greenery, low red roofs that curled up to high red chimney-stacks and down to square windows, set in walls of mellow brick-work criss-crossed with the gray of weather-beaten oak. Patricia’s heart gave a great leap: for this was the very home she had imagined as they came through the woods! They drew up at a wooden gate, painted dull green, supported by low pillars of old brick-work between the hawthorn hedges; saw, peering through it, a small gravel-drive, a huge walnut tree just in leaf, and a long low house, door in centre, double-floored under projecting eaves. “Francis,” cried Patricia, “this is _it_.” He looked at her; saw a woman transformed. Her cheeks glowed; her lips were half-parted; her slumbrous eyes danced and kindled. “My dear Pat . . .” he began. “Don’t tell me I haven’t seen it yet, Francis. Don’t tell me it won’t do; that the drains will be all wrong; that it’s a hundred miles from anywhere. Because I don’t care. This is going to be my home—mine and Peter’s. . . .” Mr. Tebbits found them by the gate. “You been wounded, mister?” he asked, looking at the sticks Francis carried. “Yes,” admitted Francis. “Ah. At the war, I expect. This be a mighty bad war. I’ve got five sons there myself. All in the Ox and Bucks they be. Two’s Corporals. Charlie, he couldn’t go; nor Harry neither.” He turned to Patricia. “This be Sunflowers, missis. Likely you’d care to go in.” He swung open the gate; held it while Francis hobbled through. “The paddick goes with the house,” explained Tebbits, “but if you wasn’t thinking ’bout keeping stock, I’d be just as glad to have it for my cows.”