For days and days Hephzy and I “house-hunted.” We engaged a nurse to look after the future patient of the “sanitarium” while we did our best to look for the sanitarium itself. Mr. Matthews gave us the addresses of real estate agents and we journeyed from suburb to suburb and from seashore to hills. We saw several “semi-detached villas.” The name “semi-detached villa” had an appealing sound, especially to Hephzy, but the villas themselves did not appeal. They turned out to be what we, in America, would have called “two-family houses.”
“And I never did like the idea of livin' in a two-family house,” declared Hephzy. “I've known plenty of real nice folks who did live in 'em, or one-half of one of 'em, but it usually happened that the folks in the other half was a dreadful mean set. They let their dog chase your cat and if your hens scratched up their flower garden they were real unlikely about it. I've heard Father tell about Cap'n Noah Doane and Cap'n Elkanah Howes who used to live in Bayport. They'd been chums all their lives and when they retired from the sea they thought 'twould be lovely to build a double house so's they would be right close together all the time. Well, they did it and they hadn't been settled more'n a month when they began quarrelin'. Cap'n Noah's wife wanted the house painted yellow and Mrs. Cap'n Elkanah, she wanted it green. They started the fuss and it ended by one-half bein' yellow and t'other half green—such an outrage you never saw—and a big fence down the middle of the front yard, and the two families not speakin', and law-suits and land knows what all. They wouldn't even go to the same church nor be buried in the same graveyard. No sir-ee! no two-family house for us if I can help it. We've got troubles enough inside the family without fightin' the neighbors.”
“But think of the beautiful names,” I observed. “Those names ought to appeal to your poetic soul, Hephzy. We haven't seen a villa yet, no matter how dingy, or small, that wasn't christened 'Rosemary Terrace' or 'Sunnylawn' or something. That last one—the shack with the broken windows—was labeled 'Broadview' and it faced an alley ending at a brick stable.”
“I know it,” she said. “If they'd called it 'Narrowview' or 'Cow Prospect' 'twould have been more fittin', I should say. But I think givin' names to homes is sort of pretty, just the same. We might call our house at home 'Writer's Rest.' A writer lives in it, you know.”
“And he has rested more than he has written of late,” I observed. “'Quahaug Stew' or 'The Tureen' would be better, I should say.”
When we expressed disapproval of the semi-detached villas our real estate brokers flew to the other extremity and proceeded to show us “estates.” These estates comprised acres of ground, mansions, game-keepers' and lodge-keepers' houses, and goodness knows what. Some, so the brokers were particular to inform us, were celebrated for their “shooting.”
The villas were not good enough; the estates were altogether too good. We inspected but one and then declined to see more.
“Shootin'!” sniffed Hephzy. “I should feel like shootin' myself every time I paid the rent. I'd HAVE to do it the second time. 'Twould be a quicker end than starvin', 'and the first month would bring us to that.”
We found one pleasant cottage in a suburb bearing the euphonious name of “Leatherhead”—that is, the village was named “Leatherhead”; the cottage was “Ash Clump.” I teased Hephzy by referring to it as “Ash Dump,” but it really was a pretty, roomy house, with gardens and flowers. For the matter of that, every cottage we visited, even the smallest, was bowered in flowers.
Hephzy's romantic spirit objected strongly to “Leatherhead,” but I told her nothing could be more appropriate.