“Yes,” said he, “a canal-boat.”
“Furnished?” asked Euphemia, her eyes glistening.
“Well, no,” answered the doctor, “I don't think you could expect that.”
“But we can't live on the bare floor,” said Euphemia; “our house MUST be furnished.”
“Well, then, I suppose this won't do,” said the doctor, ruefully, “for there isn't so much as a boot-jack in it. It has most things that are necessary for a boat, but it hasn't anything that you could call house-furniture; but, dear me, I should think you could furnish it very cheaply and comfortably out of your book.”
“Very true,” said Euphemia, “if we could pick out the cheapest things and then get some folks to buy a lot of the books.”
“We could begin with very little,” said I, trying hard to keep calm.
“Certainly,” said the doctor, “you need make no more rooms, at first, than you could furnish.”
“Then there are no rooms,” said Euphemia.
“No, there is nothing but one vast apartment extending from stem to stern.”