“There isn't anything left,” he said. “We've got to the end.”
They stood on the edge of the pavement and looked up and down the street, and then, by a common impulse, they looked at the house opposite, where a placard in the window advertised, “Apartments to Let—to Gentlemen only.”
“It would be of no use asking there,” murmured Marcia, in sad abstraction.
“Well, let's go over and try,” said her husband. “They can't do more than turn us out of doors.”
“I know it won't be of any use,” Marcia sighed, as people do when they hope to gain something by forbidding themselves hope. But she helplessly followed, and stood at the foot of the door-steps while he ran up and rang.
It was evidently the woman of the house who came to the door and shrewdly scanned them.
“I see you have apartments to let,” said Bartley.
“Well, yes,” admitted the woman, as if she considered it useless to deny it, “I have.”
“I should like to look at them,” returned Bartley, with promptness. “Come, Marcia.” And, reinforced by her, he invaded the premises before the landlady had time to repel him. “I'll tell you what we want,” he continued, turning into the little reception-room at the side of the door, “and if you haven't got it, there's no need to trouble you. We want a fair-sized room, anywhere between the cellar-floor and the roof, with a bed and a stove and a table in it, that sha'n't cost us more than ten dollars a week, with board.”
“Set down,” said the landlady, herself setting the example by sinking into the rocking-chair behind her and beginning to rock while she made a brief study of the intruders. “Want it for yourselves?”