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In the course of the following fortnight I received, with what emotions I shall not attempt to say, the plan for my bungalow. At that moment it was precisely as if the house was in actual existence. I think the feeling was not unnatural. Of course, a plan is no more a house than a heifer is a tub of butter; but in either case the mere fact that you have acquired the former perceptibly increases your chance of one day getting the latter.

My plan, like those I had already seen in Arbuthnot’s office, was executed in white ink on blue paper, with its name and dimensions neatly lettered in the centre of each room, the doors all invitingly ajar, and the beds indicated by little devices which looked like the first stage of cat’s cradle. The chimneys were