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Sarah Vulliamy stared at her pink finger-tips.

“But,” she protested, “I wanted to marry George Fulke.”

“I can’t help that,” said Pardoner gloomily, filling her glass with champagne. “I didn’t make the rotten Will.”

“Well, you needn’t be so ungallant about it,” retorted Sarah. “And it’s no use giving me any more champagne, because I shan’t drink it. Filthy stuff.”

Her companion raised his eyes to heaven.

“ ‘Filthy stuff,’ ” he breathed. “And I brought you here, because this is the only place in London that’s got any left. ‘Filthy stuff.’ I daresay it doesn’t appeal to you, but why blaspheme? Never mind. When we’re married, I’ll——”

“I tell you,” said Sarah, “I want to marry George Fulke.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Pardoner. “George Fulke is a most desirable young man. I should think, as a husband, he’d feed right out of your hand. But there you are. You’ve refused him three times—on your own confession: and now it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late at all,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I’m lunching with him to-morrow, and, if I’m nice to him——”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Pardoner, “don’t go and play with fire. I know what these lawyers are. If you went and got engaged to somebody else, there’d be the devil to pay before we could straighten it out. Which reminds me—the sooner our engagement’s announced——”

“But I don’t want to marry you,” wailed Sarah.

Pardoner clasped his head in his hands.

“Look here,” he said. “I don’t know how many proposals you’ve had, but——”

“Thirty-nine,” said Sarah, “to date.”

“Well, do those thirty-nine include one from me?”

Sarah shook her fair head.

“I’ve often wondered why they didn’t,” she said.

Pardoner felt inclined to scream. Instead, he emptied his glass. Then he leaned forward.

“Shall I tell you?” he said.

“Oh, do.”

“Because I’m—I’m already in love with somebody else.”

“Oh, Virgil, how exciting. Who is it?”

Pardoner swallowed.

“It isn’t exciting at all,” he said aggrievedly. “It’s very tragic. Here have I been waiting and waiting for old James Tantamount to pass to a well-earned rest, and now he’s done it—and fairly cramped my style.”

“But who is it, Virgil?”

“You wouldn’t know her,” protested Pardoner.

“Tell me her name.”

“Townshend. June Townshend. One of the Lincolnshire lot.”

Sarah knitted her brows.

“June Townshend,” she said musingly. “I never heard of her. Does she——”

“I told you you hadn’t,” said Pardoner. “But that’s neither here nor there. There’s my skeleton or cross, or whatever you like to dress it in. You see, my lady, we’re both in the same sad boat. You want George, and I want June. And we can’t have ’em.”

Sarah stretched out her hand.

“Let me look at the Will,” she said.

Pardoner produced and handed her a paper.

.... subject to the aforesaid legacies give devise and bequeath all my real and personal property of every sort and description as follows to be divided equally between my nephew Virgil Pardoner of 79 St. James’s Street, S.W. and my ward Sarah Cust Vulliamy at present of Palfrey in the New Forest upon the absolute condition that my aforesaid nephew and ward are married the one to the other within three months of my death. But should my aforesaid nephew and ward or either of them fail to observe this condition or dispute this Will then I devise and bequeath the whole of my aforesaid property equally to the undermentioned Institutions....

Sarah read the words thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t say how much, does it?”

“Wills don’t,” said Virgil. “That’s where the lawyers come in. Forsyth tells me that, when everything’s paid, the money alone will be over six hundred thousand.”

“It’s a shame,” cried Sarah. “A beastly shame. They say the Law’s just, but it isn’t. Men always get the best. Here I get three hundred thousand and lose my freedom. You get your share and me into the bargain. And what about poor George? I shan’t know how to tell him.”

As soon as Pardoner could speak—

“What about June?” he demanded. “She’ll—she’ll never forgive me.”

“Oh, blow June,” said Sarah. “Besides, it’s not settled yet, and I’m not at all sure I’m going to do it. Money isn’t everything.”

“That,” said Virgil, “depends upon the amount. Besides, I daresay after a bit we shall—we shall be—er—quite happy.”

“Ugh,” shuddered Sarah. “We shan’t. We shall be miserable. No,” she added suddenly. “It’s a great temptation, but we’d better not.”

She handed the paper back.

“ ‘Better not’?” cried Pardoner. “What d’you mean—‘better not’?”

“Better not marry,” said Sarah. “It’ld be selling ourselves.”

Virgil took a deep breath.

“My dear child, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t go and throw away three hundred thousand pounds. Besides, what about my share? If you chuck up yours, you chuck up mine too.”

“That,” said Sarah deliberately, “does not weigh with me. I came to dinner to-night to decide whether I could possibly do it. And now I know I can’t.”

“My dear Sarah,” said Pardoner, “be reasonable. By the mercy of heaven, neither of us is already married. To complete our good fortune, neither of us is even pledged to marry anybody else.”

“What about June?” said Sarah.

“She’s got nothing in writing,” said Virgil shortly. “Listen. If either of us had been engaged, it would have complicated everything, especially for me. The damages, for instance, would have been painfully easy to assess. So we’ve much to be thankful for. Of course, it would have been nicer if we’d been left the money unconditionally, but there you are. We might be worse off. Supposing I had false teeth or a long matted beard or something.... And I’ve always thought, Sarah, that you were very charming, and I shouldn’t be surprised if, after a year or two, you got quite crazy about me.”

Miss Vulliamy sighed.

“I feel very uneasy about June,” she declared. “George’ll find somebody else, I expect. Men are like that. But poor June Townshend ... I should hate her to think that my ... my husband——”

“June’s very intelligent,” said Virgil. “I’ll write and explain the position. Don’t worry about that. She’s most sympathetic. I’m sure she’ld be the first to——”

“Congratulate you?”

“Well, almost,” said Pardoner. “She’s an awful good sort, June.”

“What brutes men are,” said Sarah. “However, if you must have your wretched money, I suppose I shall have to give way. Incidentally, you might begin by choosing me a peach, will you?”

Virgil selected one carefully. Then he looked at Sarah.

“Tell me the worst,” he said. “Shall it be rough or smooth?”

“Smooth, of course. And don’t rush it. Peel it properly. Remember—you’re my slave now. Oh, and I’ld like some grenadine. I’m thirsty.”

Pardoner set down his knife.

“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean, I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but, at least, it’s got some body.”

“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I love it.”

Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed.... Then he gave the order.

Sarah smiled maddeningly.

“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.”

“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you couldn’t do with a walnut?”

“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “ ‘When we’re married,’ you were saying.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, hadn’t I?”

“I suppose so,” said Sarah.

“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been arranged, and——’ ”

He stopped short and looked at her.

Sarah smiled back.

“It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?”

Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass.

“Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But I’ll do my best.”

He drank luxuriously.

Sarah lifted her grenadine.

“And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June, words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.”

“We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve got a very sweet way.”

“That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?”

Pardoner choked. Then—

“I’m sure,” he said stiffly, “it would have been your guardian’s——”

“—and your uncle’s——”

“—wish that we should live at Palfrey.”

“Is there any reason why we should consider his wishes?”

“Hang it,” said Virgil. “The old fellow’s left us six hundred thousand.”

“And blighted our lives.”

“Oh, not ‘blighted,’ ” said Pardoner. “You can’t blight three hundred thousand quid. You can make it a bit sticky, but you can’t blight a sum like that. It’s—it’s invulnerable.”

“I was speaking of our lives,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Not our legacies.”

“Same thing,” said Pardoner comfortably, passing a somewhat rugged sculpture across the table. “Same thing. You see. The two are indistinguishable. Supposing another Will turned up, leaving the lot to me.” Sarah shuddered. “Exactly. Your life would become a blank—same as your bank balance.”

“Not for long,” said Miss Vulliamy.

“Why?”

“Because,” said Sarah, with a dazzling smile. “I should sue you for breach of promise.” Her companion paled. “The damages would be—er—painfully easy to assess, wouldn’t they?”

Pardoner frowned. Then his face cleared.

“The contingency,” he said, “is happily remote. If it ever happened, I should give you half, because you’ve the sporting instinct.”

“How much,” said Sarah dreamily, “shall you give June?”

The other started.

“June? Oh, June’s all right. She—she wouldn’t expect anything. I—I shouldn’t like to offer it. It’ld be—er—indelicate.”

Miss Vulliamy sighed.

“Well, well,” she said, “I expect you know best. Any way, we’ve had a nice straight talk, haven’t we? I mean, we haven’t minced matters. I’ve told you that, but for the money, I wouldn’t be seen dead with you; and you’ve been equally frank.”

Pardoner shifted upon his chair.

“I said,” he protested, “I said you’d a very sweet way. I remember it perfectly.”

“That,” said Miss Vulliamy, “was your only lapse.” She raised her straight eyebrows and a faint smile hung upon her red lips. “But for that, you have been disconcertingly honest.”

Pardoner lighted a cigarette.

“You’re a strange girl,” he said. “One minute you talk like an infant, and the next like a woman of forty. Which are you?”

“That,” said Sarah, “will be for my husband to discover.”

James Tantamount, Esquire, had died at San Francisco.

The direct cause of death was his consumption of iced melon. The physician, who travelled with him mainly to pull his stomach out of the disorders into which the bon vivant was constantly haling that valuable member, had besought him again and again to eschew the delicacy. On each occasion James Tantamount had asked him what he thought he was there for. “Any fool,” he insisted, “can prevent. I can prevent myself. But I’m not going to. I’m not going to earn your money. Your job’s to cure—when I’m sick. Stick to it.” It was indeed, I fancy, as much with the idea of giving his attendant work as with that of indulging his appetite that he had upon the tenth day of June devoured two more slices of melon than he was accustomed to consume. If I am right, his ghost must have been disappointed. The man himself did not have time. In a word, he had consumed the delicacy, and pausing only to make a long nose at his physician upon the other side of the table, had laid down his life and his spoon at the same moment.

His secretary had cabled to London for instructions.

Forsyth and Co., Solicitors, had referred to the Will and replied that their client was to be buried forthwith, adding that, by the terms of that remarkable document, if his doctor and secretary desired to receive the year’s salary apiece which it offered them, they must be prepared to produce credible testimony that they had followed the coffin attired as convicts and playing vigorously upon harps.

The heat prevailing at San Francisco had not only precluded any discussion of the provision, but had made the asportation of the harps a perfectly hellish business, and only the hilarious encouragement of an enormous crowd had enabled the two contingent legatees to stagger into possession.

There, then, you have the late James Tantamount—bluff, greedy, generous, but blessed or cursed with an incorrigible love of what are called ‘practical’ jokes. It was not his fault. He had been bred upon them. To the day of his death he could recall with tearful relish the memory of his father, amid roars of laughter, pursuing the vicar round the dining-room, while the doctor blew frantically upon a hunting horn and other guests arranged recumbent chairs as timber to be leaped....

If such a passionate propensity had not asserted itself in death, it would have been surprising. To lovers of fun, riches and a Will offer the chance of a lifetime. The tragedy of it is, they are not alive to enjoy the jest. When James Tantamount, of Palfrey, left his vast fortune to his nephew and his ward upon the condition that they should marry, he knew he was being funny. He had no conception, however, that he was perpetrating the joke of his career.

The news of the old fellow’s death had sent hopes soaring. It was generally assumed that his nephew and ward would each receive half of his fortune. For a few days, therefore, the two enjoyed undreamed-of popularity, as a highly desirable couple, and frantic efforts were made by countless matrons to catch their respective eyes. All wrote: some called: others sent flowers. The hearts that ‘went out’ to them in their ‘irreparable loss’ argued an esteem for the late James Tantamount hitherto too deep to be expressed.

There is a grief, wrote Mrs. Closeley Dore to Virgil, too deep to talk about .... As soon as you feel able, come and spend a few days at Datchet. You shall do as you please, and use the house as an hotel. Bring your man, of course....

The Closeley Dores had four daughters.

My child, wrote Mrs. Sheraton Forbes to Sarah, I know so well that dreadful sense of loneliness, which gnaws the aching heart. Come back to Fairlands with us on Saturday. We will leave you entirely to yourself, but I should like to think that my dear old friend’s sweet ward had someone to turn to in this darkest hour. The world is so hard....

Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had three sons.

It was a dreadful business....

Then the announcement appeared, and the sympathy died down. It was generally, if grudgingly, admitted that Virgil and Sarah had done the right thing. Crestfallen mothers, consoled by the reflection that, even if they had lost the prize, nobody else had won it, agreed that it was what ‘that old Tantamount’ would have wished. Some said, sniffing, that his death had drawn the two together.

Finally, the contents of the Will had become public property.

The effect upon the matrons of Mayfair was electrical. With, I think, the slightest encouragement, the late millionaire would have been burned in effigy. As for the two legatees, the outburst of execration with which their determination was posthumously and somewhat illogically received, beggars description.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Closeley Dore to Mrs. Sheraton Forbes, “my dear, I can stand worldliness, but I detest indecency. Only a man with the mind of a Nero could have conceived such an infamous idea. But then he was always gross. My father, you know, would never have him inside the house.” She shuddered. “But, for an old relic of the Roaring Forties to make a degrading suggestion is one thing; for a decently brought up young man and woman to adopt it is quite another. Those two have no excuse. It is the apotheosis of immorality. I don’t pretend I’m not worldly—I am, and I know it. But deliberately to abet one another in debasing one of the Sacraments of the Church——”

In a voice shaken with emotion, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes replied with a misquotation from the Solemnization of Matrimony.

It was a dreadful business....

In the Clubs the affair got the laugh of the season. Virgil Pardoner, who had always been liked, was openly chaffed out of his life and secretly voted ‘a devilish lucky chap.’ As for the deceased, he was declared a fellow of infinite jest, and his scheme for ‘keeping the goods in the family’ boisterously applauded. The sluice-gates of Reminiscence were pulled up, and memories of ‘Old Jimmy Tantamount’ were manufactured and retailed by the hour.

In my lady’s chamber Miss Vulliamy was frankly envied.

“I don’t mind admitting,” said Margaret Shorthorn, “that I could have done with Virgil. They talk about Sarah’s selling herself. Well, what if she is? We’re all trying to do it. The only difference is that in Sarah’s case the conditions of sale have been announced in the Press. Besides, Virgil’s no monster ... I only wish to heaven I’d had such a chance.”

“I agree,” said Agatha Coldstream. “If I had to face love in a cottage, I’ld as soon face it with Virgil as with most men I know. But Virgil plus half a million....” She raised her black eyes to heaven expressively. “Besides, I like Sarah. And I’ll tell you one thing—her pals won’t be the worse off for her good fortune. Those two’ll give their friends the time of their lives. You see if they don’t.”

So much for Society’s reception of the news.

The attitude of Lincoln’s Inn Fields was not advertised, but, since John Galbraith Forsyth was a sound judge of character, his opinion may be recorded.

“Tantamount had no right to make such a Will. I told him so at the time, and I’ve often regretted since that I didn’t refuse to draw it. He was playing with fire—hell fire. He might have messed up four lives. And, if he had, he’ld’ve paid for it. That sort of thing isn’t forgiven.... Now that I’ve seen the parties, my mind’s at rest. They’re out of the top drawer, both of ’em; and they’re splendidly matched. They don’t know it—yet, and they don’t like their hands being forced. For that’s what it is. One’s only human, you know, and in these lean years six hundred thousand’s a bait you can’t ignore. But they’ll come through all right. I’m not at all certain, myself, that we couldn’t have upset the Will. I’d always got the possibility up my sleeve. But now I shan’t use it.”

Upon the night of their betrothal, neither Miss Vulliamy nor Pardoner had been at their best. They were uncomfortable and suspicious. They felt their position. To my mind, it does them real credit that they were not exceedingly sour. The circumstances were affording a unique occasion for the expression of irony and distaste. Each was, indeed, a mill-stone about the other’s neck. Add to this that they had been brought up as brother and sister, and had never looked upon one another in any other light, when you will see how easily Bitterness might have taken her seat at the board. The two had seen each other in the making—without any frills....

But Sarah and Virgil were two very charming people. After ten minutes with either of them you felt refreshed. I do not think I can pay them a higher compliment.

Somebody once said that Miss Vulliamy always looked as though she had just had a cold shower. It was a good description. Her big blue eyes were always alight with expectancy, her eager face glowing, her pretty red mouth upon the edge of laughter. Her little way, too, of raising a delicate chin stuck fast in your memory, while the length of her exquisite lashes was almost unfair. Her figure and the slimness of her legs belonged to idylls. Looking upon the lady, you thought first of the dawn and then of dew and cool meadows. Sarah would have made an arresting Naiad. Shepherds who repaired to her fountain would have been constantly crowded out.

Pardoner was tall, and conveyed the idea of laziness. It was his soft brown eyes that gave this impression. His thick dark hair and his high colour had earned him at Oxford the sobriquet of Rouge et Noir. An aquiline nose, and a firm, well-shaped mouth distinguished a handsome face. The way in which he wore his clothes brought his tailor much hardly merited custom. His most attractive voice delighted the ear. It was, in fact, hereby that his personality emerged. When he was silent, he passed in a well-mannered crowd; when he opened his mouth, other people stopped talking.

The two met in Bond Street a fortnight later.

“Good morning,” said Virgil. “I bet I’ve been cut by more people than you.”

“Four,” said Sarah, “since half-past ten.”

“Five and a half,” said her fiancé. “Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had a child with her under fourteen. This ostracism amuses me to death. Never mind. How’s Fulke?”

“Desperate,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I knew he would be. He bucked up a lot when I said he should be our first guest.”

“Did he, indeed?” said Virgil. “Truly a forgiving nature.”

“Yes, he is very sweet,” agreed Sarah. “Couldn’t he be your best man?”

Pardoner fingered his chin.

“I’m afraid he’s too young,” he said slowly. “I must have a compeer.”

“Very well, then,” said Sarah. “He can give me away.”

“That,” said Virgil, “will be a most becoming rôle.”

Miss Vulliamy frowned. Then—

“As we’re here,” she said, “what about an engagement ring?”

“Of course,” said Virgil. “Come on. We’ll get it at once.”

The two repaired to a jeweller’s and bought a beauty.

“And while we’re about it,” said Pardoner, “a wedding ring too.”

A wedding ring was selected.

“And we might as well get our presents,” said Sarah, staring at a tiara composed of diamonds and emeralds. “You know: ‘The bridegroom’s presents to the bride included...’ ”

“Right,” said Virgil. “Have what you like. I’m in a generous mood. Besides, my turn’s coming. In fact I’ll just have a look round.”

Before they left the shop, the bride had given the bridegroom a gold cigarette-box, four pearl pins, six pairs of sleeve links, and a green crocodile dressing-case, which, with its gold-mounted fittings, cost her eight hundred pounds.

On being acquainted with the lengths to which her generosity had gone—

“They will think I love you,” said Miss Vulliamy, as soon as she could speak.

“Remembering that tiara,” said Pardoner, “they’ll say I’m doting. I didn’t know they made such expensive things. But for my brain-wave about that dressing-case, I should have been left standing.”

In a shaking voice Sarah demanded luncheon.

“Not that I want to presume upon your hospitality, but we’ve many things to discuss,” she concluded coldly.

“On condition,” said Pardoner, “that you do not drink grenadine, I’ll do you a treat.”

“I don’t see why,” said Miss Vulliamy, “I should give up my staple drink.”

Virgil shuddered.

“I’ll try and explain some day. For one thing it’s bad for the heart.”

“It’s never affected mine,” said Sarah.

“No,” said Virgil, “I daresay it hasn’t. To be frank, I was thinking of my own. But never mind. Give it a miss till we’re married—a sort of interim injunction. We can argue it out later.”

“Very well,” said Sarah reluctantly.

That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer good fortune..... Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives. Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two positively festive.... When the two Americans asked their hostess the identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began to overflow....

At length—

“Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale doesn’t last two minutes alone.”

“Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid she’s terribly upset.”

“Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder. Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?”

“Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it before.”

“Never, darling.”

“O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has dispersed.”

“But it comes so natural.”

Sarah tilted her chin.

“We are not amused,” she said stiffly. “And now to business. We’d better be married about the end of the month. What about the twenty-fifth?”

Virgil consulted a note-book.

“Can’t be done,” he said. “I’m playing polo. I can manage the twenty-fourth.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said his fiancée. “What about the honeymoon?”

After a lot of argument, Pardoner agreed to waive the polo, on the understanding that the wedding-trip was restricted to fourteen days.

“Well, that’s that,” said Sarah. “Now then, where shall it be? I may say that I insist upon a church.”

A church was at last selected and Pardoner promised to make the necessary arrangements.

“The next thing,” said Miss Vulliamy, “is where to go. What about Dinard?”

“As you please,” said Virgil. “I suppose that’s where Fulke’s going,” he added carelessly.

Sarah shook her sweet head.

“Not till the first,” she replied. “Which brings us to June.”

“August,” corrected Virgil. “August. July—August—Sept——”

“June Townshend,” said Sarah shortly.

Pardoner started and dropped his cigarette.

“What about her?” he said uneasily. “She wouldn’t like Dinard. She’s a—a clergyman’s daughter.”

Sarah bowed before a little gust of laughter.

Then—

“Have you written to her?” she demanded.

“Er, no. Not yet. I mean, it’s a delicate matter.”

“Virgil,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Unless you write to her to-day, I won’t marry you.”

“But——”

“That’s flat,” said Sarah. “I mean what I say. After all this time, to let that poor girl see our engagement in the paper and nurse her sorrow without one word of explanation or regret.... I confess I’m disgusted. No honourable man——”

“I’m not an honourable man,” said Pardoner. “I’m a loathsome and venomous worm. Ask Mrs. Closeley Dore.”

“You will write to her now,” said Sarah. “You will send for a sheet of notepaper and write to her now—in the lounge. I’ll help you.”

By the time the document was settled, it was a quarter to four.

My Dear June,

Possibly by now you will have seen the announcement of my engagement in the papers. Had I been able, I should have wished to tell you of it myself, but a recent bereavement has not only kept me in London, but has affected my brain. The marriage I am contracting is one which you would have been the first to wish me to make. Indeed, I have often fancied that I could hear your soft voice urging me to go forward. My poor uncle is dead, dear, and I have reason to believe that it was his earnest desire that I should wed his ward. I feel, therefore, that the least I can do is to respect his wishes. Nothing, however, can take away the memory of the many happy, happy hours we have spent together, and I look forward confidently to bringing my wife to see you, as soon as we are settled. I am sure that you and she will get on together, and perhaps one day you will come and stay with us at Palfrey, which we shall make our home.