And of the sunken rock-garden: “That might be dangerous of a dark night.” “I suppose,” he said, indicating the hill of pines behind, “one could buy or lease some of that. If one wanted to throw it into the place and open out more. “From my point of view,” he said, “it isn’t a house. It’s——” He sought in his mind for an expression—“a Cottage Ornay.” This history declines to record either what Mr. Brumley said or what he did not say. Sir Isaac surveyed the house thoughtfully for some moments from the turf edging of the great herbaceous border. “How far,” he asked, “is it from the nearest railway station?...” Mr. Brumley gave details. “Four miles. And an infrequent service? Nothing in any way suburban? Better to motor into Guildford and get the Express. H’m.... And what sort of people do we get about here?” Mr. Brumley sketched. “Mildly horsey. That’s not bad. No officers about?... Nothing nearer than Aldershot.... That’s eleven miles, is it? H’m. I suppose there aren’t any _literary_ people about here, musicians or that kind of thing, no advanced people of that sort?” “Not when I’ve gone,” said Mr. Brumley, with the faintest flavour of humour. Sir Isaac stared at him for a moment with eyes vacantly thoughtful. “It mightn’t be so bad,” said Sir Isaac, and whistled a little between his teeth. Mr. Brumley was suddenly minded to take his visitor to see the view and the effect of his board upon it. But he spoke merely of the view and left Sir Isaac to discover the board or not as he thought fit. As they ascended among the trees, the visitor was manifestly seized by some strange emotion, his face became very white, he gasped and blew for breath, he felt for his face with a nervous hand. “Four thousand,” he said suddenly. “An outside price.” “A minimum,” said Mr. Brumley, with a slight quickening of the pulse. “You won’t get three eight,” gasped Sir Isaac. “Not a business man, but my agent tells me——” panted Mr. Brumley. “Three eight,” said Sir Isaac. “We’re just coming to the view,” said Mr. Brumley. “Just coming to the view.” “Practically got to rebuild the house,” said Sir Isaac. “There!” said Mr. Brumley, and waved an arm widely. Sir Isaac regarded the prospect with a dissatisfied face. His pallor had given place to a shiny, flushed appearance, his nose, his ears, and his cheeks were pink. He blew his face out, and seemed to be studying the landscape for defects. “This might be built over at any time,” he complained. Mr. Brumley was reassuring. For a brief interval Sir Isaac’s eyes explored the countryside vaguely, then his expression seemed to concentrate and run together to a point. “H’m,” he said. “That board,” he remarked, “quite wrong there.” “_Well!_” said Mr. Brumley, too surprised for coherent speech. “Quite,” said Sir Isaac Harman. “Don’t you see what’s the matter?” Mr. Brumley refrained from an eloquent response.