I wonder now if Jennie had been waiting for a favorable opportunity and then had spoken.  I do not know; and she will never tell me.  At all events the beauty so struck me, like a landscape fresh from the hand of some great artist—­as it was indeed, fresh from the hand of the Great Artist—­that I involuntarily reined in Tom to look at it.  “It’s for sale, too,” said I, “I wonder what such a place costs.”

The artful diplomate did not answer.  The books and newspapers talk about women’s curiosity.  It’s nothing to a man’s curiosity when it is aroused.  Oh, I know the story of Bluebeard very well.  But if Mrs. Bluebeard had been a strong minded woman, and had killed her seven husbands, I wonder if the eighth would not have taken a peep.  He would not have waited for the key but would have broken in the door long before.  If men are not curious why do the authorities always appoint them on the detective police force?

“Mr. Lines,” said I that evening at the tea table, “you know that pretty little cottage on the hill just opposite the church.  I see there is a sign up ‘for sale.’  What is the price of it, do you know?”

“No,” said Mr. Lines.  “But you can easily find out.  It belongs to Charlie Sinclair; he lives there and can tell you.”

Three days after that, as I was driving up from the station, it struck my fancy I should like to see the inside of that pretty house.  “Jennie,” said I, “let’s go in and look at the inside of that pretty cottage.”  But I had no more idea of purchasing it than I have now of purchasing the moon.

“It would hardly be the thing for me to call,” said the diplomate.  “Mrs. Sinclair has never called on me.”

“I don’t want you to make any call,” said I.  “The house is for sale.  I am a New Yorker.  I am looking about Wheathedge for a place.  I see this place is for sale.  I should like to look at it.  And of course my wife must look at it too.”

“Oh! that indeed,” said my wife, “that’s another matter.  I have no particular objection to that.”

“Besides,” said I, “I really should like to know the price of such a place in Wheathedge.”

“Very good,” said Jennie.

So we drove up to the gate, fastened the horse, and inquired of Mrs. Sinclair, who came in person to the door, if we could see the house.  Certainly.  She would be very happy to show it to us.  And a very pretty house it was—­and is still.  There was a cozy little parlor with a bay window looking out on the river, there was an equally cozy little dining-room, and there was an L for a sitting-room—­which I instantly converted in my imagination into a library—­which looked with one window on the river and with another on the mountains.  There was a very convenient kitchen built out in a wing from one end of the dining-room, and three chambers over the three downstairs rooms, from the larger one of which, over the sitting-room, we could take in at a glance the Presbyterian church, the blacksmith’s shop, and the country store, with the wandering and aimless road, and a score or two of neighbor’s homes which lay along it; for the cottage was on the hillside, and elevated considerably above the main roadway.  It was charmingly furnished too, and was full of the fragrance of flowers within, as it was embowered in them without.