Mrs. Tim of the Regiment by D. E. Stevenson Page A

Munroe and Horder the house agents with whom we have been in correspondence and are shown into a dark, musty office the like of which I had thought only to exist in the imagination of Charles Dickens. Mr. Horder has evidently never read any of our letters as he knows nothing about us or our requirements. He calls Tim ‘Mr. Johnstone’ most of the time and ignores my presence completely. Tim explains patiently that we are looking for a small house with four or five bedrooms in the environs of Westburgh. Mr. Horder says there are plenty of houses of that description to be had for about £2000. Tim explains that we do not want to buy – only to rent furnished. Mr. Horder says we should be better advised to purchase a house; whereupon Tim explains that he is in the army and only here temporarily. After a great deal of irrelevant conversation we manage to extract a list of houses to visit and a packet of cards to view same.
    â€˜Depressing feller,’ Tim says as we leave the office, and I agree fervently. We repair to the garage where we have stabled Cassandra, and find that her radiator is leaking badly. Speak to mechanic who agrees with Tim that it is the water joint and promises to ‘have a look at her’ when he has time. We then lunch frugally at a teashop and board a bus for a suburb called Kiltwinkle. It has started to rain gently but firmly, and I have no umbrella.
    The bus is full of wet people with gloomy weather-beaten faces. Ask Tim if he thinks they can possibly be as disagreeable as they look, but receive no answer. Realise that Tim looks as gloomy as everyone else, and try to assume a brightly intelligent expression. We are whirled through a series of grey, wet streets. Tim rises and offers his seat to a stout woman with a baby who is swaying dangerously on a strap. She looks at him with surprise and disgust and accepts the seat without any expression of gratitude.
    On arrival at Kiltwinkle, which seems an unexpectedly pleasant residential suburb, we have no difficulty in finding the first house on our list as it is exactly opposite the bus terminus. It has huge iron gates with heraldic animals on the gateposts. There is an avenue of rhododendron bushes, and the house (when it bursts upon our eyes) is about half the size of Buckingham Palace. I point out to Tim that it would take eight servants to run the place, and he agrees regretfully that it is too large. We are about to steal away silently when an old lady comes out of the front door and shouts to us in a deep voice, ‘Come away in.’
    Tim raises his cap, and I explain that we are looking for a small furnished house, and that her mansion has been given to us in the house agent’s list by mistake. In spite of our protestations we are dragged into the hall, which is paved with marble slabs and adorned with pillars of Stilton cheese. Explain again that ‘Rose Lodge’ is much too large for our modest requirements, but the old lady insists upon conducting us all over the house – starting at the attics which would house Tim’s company and ending with the cellars which would suit a wine merchant in a large way of business.
    Tim admires everything he sees and waxes more and more enthusiastic as we proceed from room to room. I become more and more depressed at the prospect of trying to keep the place moderately clean with two maids. The drawing room is unfurnished and the old lady points out that the advantage of that is we can bring our own drawing-room furniture and so save storage. Am too proud to admit that we have none. Tim points out that the room would do splendidly for Bryan to play with his trains in the holidays as he could have the rails all over the floor and no need to clear them away at night. Begin to wonder if the old dame has bewitched Tim – she might easily be a sorceress with her long hooky nose and bright beady eyes.
    We are then taken to see the garage in which the previous owner kept five