as this in midwinter. We would lose
eight months' rent if you gave it up now, and I will myself personally
see Mr. Gottlieb in regard to his children's noise. It really is
abominable."

"We shall move this month," said Aubrey. "From the first of February
this apartment is yours."

"You are very stiff about it," said the owner. "Why not be reasonable?"

"I am perfectly reasonable," said Aubrey, gently. "I have listened for
an hour to the justice you administer to a tenant with a signed lease.
My reason is what is guiding me now."

He rose as he spoke and moved toward the door.

They glared at us both as they went out.

Aubrey sat and figured for a few moments in silence.

"It has cost us quite a little," he said at last, "to learn that such
as we cannot live in New York. We will go into the country where the
right to live, and to live this side of insanity, is guaranteed, not by
a lease, but by the exact centre of five acres of ground."

"I have always wanted to!" I cried, with enthusiasm. "We will be
commuters."

"We will commute," said Aubrey, pausing to let the fire-engines go by,
"when necessary."

CHAPTER VIII

MOVING

So we began our search for the Quiet Life and the spot wherein to live
it. It must be out-of-town, yet not so far but that the Angel and I
could get to town for an occasional feast of music or the theatre.

We asked those of our friends who were commuters to exploit the glories
of their own particular towns, but to our minds there was always some
insuperable objection.

So one day I took down the telephone-book and looked over the names of
the towns. Jersey was tabooed on account of its mosquitoes, and both
Aubrey and I cared nothing for the seashore. But the Hudson, with its
beauty and the delight of its hills rising in such a profusion of
loveliness back of it, seemed to draw us irresistibly.

"Anything within an hour of New York," said Aubrey.

The telephone-book should answer. I resolved to read until I got a
"hunch." That is not good English, but with me it is good sense, which
is better.

Finally I found a number--97 Clovertown--Bucks, Miss Susan. Peach
Orchard. The hunch was very distinct. I could fairly see my
note-paper with Peach Orchard, Clovertown, stamped on it, for I
instantly made up my mind that Susan must be asked to rent Peach
Orchard for a term of years and go abroad. I felt sure that Europe
would do her good. The more I thought of these