The wall and iron palings were strong and practically boy-proof, but the house was near enough to the road to be assailable by the skilled catapultist or the unskilled brick-bat thrower. For this, or for some other reason, all the windows on the front of the house were shuttered fast, or, in the upper storey where shutters were not, frankly boarded up with rough deal. The untrimmed lawn before the house was sprinkled with daffodils and hyacinths, and beyond, through and over thick shrubberies, were glimpses of blossoming almond and thorn, and the brown haze of fruit trees covered with the gauzy veil of little buds that spring throws over wood and orchard.
"The house was made for us," said Jane, when they had ranged up and down the iron grating and tried both the iron gates.
"Too big," said Lucilla. "Besides, look at the board."
"That only shows that the owner's weak-minded. We'll apply to the Court of Chancery, or whatever it is. The Lord Chancellor will say, 'Certainly, dears,' or whatever Lord Chancellors do say. And we shall have the house."
The board, whatever weakness it stood for, was strong enough in its statements. It said in large white letters on its black self:
THIS HOUSE
IS NOT
TO LET,
Apply to:
Messrs. P. Tutch & Co.,
207, High Street.
But the "Apply to" had been painted over by the same unskilled hand, apparently, as had painted in the wavering IS NOT.
"I don't care what you say." Jane addressed not Lucilla but the board. "I shall apply to Messrs. Tutch and Go—and I shall do it now. Come on."
