“I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two, had jocosely insisted; “the least hint of ‘convenience’ would make me think it had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up again.” And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous precision, their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe that the house their cousin recommended was REALLY Tudor till they learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds till she assured them of the deplorable uncertainty of the water-supply. “It’s too uncomfortable to be true!” Edward Boyne had continued to exult as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust: “And the ghost? You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no ghost!” Mary, at the moment, had laughed with him, yet almost with her laugh, being possessed of several sets of independent perceptions, had noted a sudden flatness of tone in Alida’s answering hilarity. “Oh, Dorsetshire’s full of ghosts, you know.” “Yes, yes; but that won’t do. I don’t want to have to drive ten miles to see somebody else’s ghost. I want one of my own on the premises. IS there a ghost at Lyng?” His rejoinder had made Alida laugh again, and it was then that she had flung back tantalizingly: “Oh, there IS one, of course, but you’ll never know it.” “Never know it?” Boyne pulled her up. “But what in the world constitutes a ghost except the fact of its being known for one?” “I can’t say. But that’s the story.” “That there’s a ghost, but that nobody knows it’s a ghost?” “Well--not till afterward, at any rate.” “Till afterward?” “Not till long, long afterward.” “But if it’s once been identified as an unearthly visitant, why hasn’t its signalement been handed down in the family? How has it managed to preserve its incognito?” Alida could only shake her head. “Don’t ask me. But it has.” “And then suddenly--” Mary spoke up as if from some cavernous depth of divination--“suddenly, long afterward, one says to one’s self, ‘THAT WAS it?’” She was oddly startled at the sepulchral sound with which her question fell on the banter of the other two, and she saw the shadow of the same surprise flit across Alida’s clear pupils. “I suppose so. One just has to wait.” “Oh, hang waiting!” Ned broke in. “Life’s too short for a ghost who can only be enjoyed in retrospect. Can’t we do better than that, Mary?” But it turned out that in the event they were not destined to, for within three months of their conversation with Mrs. Stair they were established at Lyng, and the life they had yearned for to the point of planning it out in all its daily details had actually begun for them.