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the right reply was that “it only needed firing,” because it was so obviously damp that it was no use to deny it. Some people asked one thing, and some people another—there was no hard-and-fast rule. You said the best you could of a house and made as little as possible of its glaring defects. Mr. Pinthorpe rather prided himself upon the way he could show off houses.
    But Barbara didn’t want to ask any questions about the house—none at all. There was no need for her to ask questions since she had definitely and irrevocably made up her mind to have it. She looked at Mr. Pinthorpe as if she were seeing him for the first time and didn’t much like the look of him.
    â€œGo away,” she said quietly—almost casually.
    â€œGo away!” echoed Mr. Pinthorpe, unable to believe his ears.
    â€œYes,” said Barbara, waving her hand vaguely. “Go away. I want to—to think.”
    He looked at her doubtfully; should he obey this extraordinary request, or not? He had been sent to look after her and he was therefore responsible both for her and for the house. Supposing he went away and left her, and she took something, where would he be then? He looked round the room, and considered the matter—there was nothing she could take, nothing at all. There was nothing in the house except dust, and cobwebs, and dead flies.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
    She scarcely seemed to hear what he said (just waved her hand for him to go) and Mr. Pinthorpe felt rather annoyed. She was rum! She had been so matey coming along the street, and now she seemed to have forgotten his existence—she was rum. He sighed, went downstairs, and sat down on the front doorstep in the sun. Then he took his book out of his pocket and got on with the story.

Chapter Seven
Visitors—Supernatural and Otherwise
    When Mr. Abbott was brought to see the house his wife had selected, he was positively aghast. He saw it as it was, and not as it might become. It happened, most unfortunately, to be a wet day, rather dark and chilly for the time of year. The rain blew against the tall bare windows in gusts, the paper hanging from the walls flapped dismally. There was a dankness in the air, and a musty smell permeated every room; there were cobwebs in every corner; the plaster was peeling off the walls and falling from the ceilings in fine gray flakes. The truth was that Barbara would have been wiser to put off Arthur’s visit and to have brought him down to see The Archway House on a dry sunny day, but this never occurred to her for a moment. She was so besotted with The Archway House herself, that she had no qualms at all about Arthur’s reaction to it.
    Arthur had heard such glowing accounts of the place that he was in no way prepared for what he saw, so he was immeasurably disappointed, nay he was horrified beyond words. He had visualized a comfortable, cozy sort of house, and he beheld a ruin. Barbara must be mad, he thought miserably. He was quite certain she was mad when she opened the door of a dank, dusty apartment behind the drawing-room and showed him his study.
    â€œYou can have all your books here—won’t it be cozy?” she exclaimed, looking round the dismal place with a rapt expression in her eyes. “You’ve always wanted a room of your very own, haven’t you?”
    â€œIt’s rather—dark,” he objected feebly.
    â€œThat’s only because of the tree in front of the window,” she replied. “We’ll have that cut down, of course. Monkey puzzles are horrid anyhow, so it won’t be any loss.”
    â€œI wonder if there are any rats,” Mr. Abbott remarked, hoping it would choke her off.
    â€œOh, there are,” said Barbara airily, “there are rats. Mr. Tyler told me about the rats when I went back and saw him at his office. But we can easily get rid of rats—you poison them