Sara nodded.

“Yes.  You see”—­smiling—­“you people have spoiled me for living alone, and as I’m really rather a solitary individual, I must find a little niche for myself somewhere.”  She unfolded a letter she was holding.  “I thought I should like to go near the sea—­to some quite tiny country place at the back of beyond.  And I think I’ve found just the thing.  I saw an advertisement for a paying guest—­of the female persuasion—­so I replied to it, and I’ve just had an answer to my letter.  It’s from a doctor man—­a Dr. Selwyn, at Monkshaven—­who has an invalid wife and one daughter, and he writes such an original kind of epistle that I’m sure I should like him.”

Geoffrey held out his hand for the letter, running his eyes down its contents, while his wife, receiving an assenting nod from Sara in response to her “May I?” looked over his shoulder.

Only Tim appeared to take no interest in the matter, but remained standing rather aloof, staring out of the window, his back to the trio grouped around the hearth.

“‘Household . . . myself, wife, one daughter,’” muttered Geoffrey.  “Um-um—­’quarter of a mile from the sea’—­um——­’As you will have guessed from the fact of my advertising’”—­here he began to read aloud—­“’we are not too lavishly blessed with this world’s goods.  Our house is roomy and comfortable, though abominably furnished.  But I can guarantee the climate, and there are plenty of nicer people than ourselves in the neighbourhood.  It wouldn’t be fitting for me to blow our own particular household trumpet—­nor, to tell the truth, is it always calculated to give forth melodious sounds; but if the other considerations I have mentioned commend themselves to you, I suggest that you come down and make trial of us.’”

“Don’t you think he sounds just delightful?” queried Sara.

Manlike, Geoffrey shook his head disapprovingly.

“No, I don’t,” he said decisively.  “That’s the most unbusinesslike letter I’ve ever read.”

“I like it very much,” announced Elisabeth with equal decision.  “The man writes just as he thinks—­perfectly frankly and naturally.  I should go and give them a trial as he suggests.  Sara, if I were you.”

“That’s what I feel inclined to do,” replied Sara.  “I thought it a delicious letter.”

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

“Then, of course, if you two women have made up your minds that the man’s a natural saint, I may as well hold my peace.  What’s the fellow’s address?—­I’ll look him up in the Medical Directory.  Richard Selwyn, Sunnyside, Monkshaven—­that right?”

He departed to the library in search of Dr. Selywn’s credentials, presently returning with a somewhat rueful grin on his face.

“He seems all right—­rather a clever man, judging by his degrees and the appointments he has held,” he acknowledged grudgingly.

“I’m sure he’s all right, asserted Sara firmly.