They forded a stream--more silver, and a silver road after that.
It was a little house set on top of a hill, where indeed no little house should be set, for little houses should nestle, protected by the slopes back of them. But this little house was set up there for the view--the Monument a spectral shaft, miles away, the Potomac broadening out beyond it, the old trees of the Park sleeping between. This was what the little house saw by night; it saw more than that by day.
It was not an empty house. One window was lighted, a square of gold in a lower room.
They did not know who lived in the house. They did not care. For the moment it was theirs. Leaving the car, they sat on the grass and surveyed their property.
"Of course it is ours," Jean said, "and when you are over there, you can think of it with the moon shining on it."
"I like the sloping roof," her lover took up the refrain, "and the big chimney and the wide windows."
"I can sit on the window seat and watch for you, Derry, and there will be smoke coming out of the chimney on cold days, and a fire roaring on the hearth when you open the door--"
They decided that there ought to be eight rooms--, and they named them. The Log-Fire Room; The Room of Little Feasts; the Place of Pots and Pans--
The upper floor was harder--The Royal Suite; The Friendly Boom, for the dream maid of all work; The Spare Chamber--
"My grandmother had a spare chamber," Jean explained, "and I always liked the sound of it, as if she kept her hospitality pressed down and running over--"
Derry, who had written it all by the light of the moon, held his pencil poised. "There is one more," he said, "the little room towards the West--"
Jean hesitated for the breadth of a second. "Well, we may need another," she said, and left it nameless.
The door opened and a man came out. If he saw them, they meant nothing to him--a pair of lovers by the wayside; there were many such.
He paced back and forth on the gravel walk. They could hear the crunch of it under his feet. They saw the shining tip of his cigar--smelt its fragrance--.
Again the door opened, to frame a woman. She called and her voice was young.
"Dearest, it is late. Are you coming in?"
His young voice answered. His far-flung cigar-end trailed across the darkness, his eager steps gave quick response--the door was shut--.