"I've got field-glasses at home," he said wistfully. "In my suit-case. But I didn't unpack. Daughter does not like a lot of trash around the house. I'll bet we could see the gobs on that battle-ship if we had the glasses." He turned again to the yard. "It'll take a lot of work keeping up this place. And you busy every day wouldn't have much time for it. I reckon you'd be afraid alone nights, too. An apartment is better for a woman by herself." "But the freedom--" "Women hadn't ought to have too much freedom. It spoils 'em. This is the born place for a man--and a dog--and field-glasses--and a Ford." "Let's go inside and look it over," said Eveley. "Did you ever see such a place for chickens? Nice clean little coops all ready for them. Wouldn't it be a paradise for half a dozen hens?" "It's a lot of work raising chickens," said the old man. "It's a job for a man, really. You wouldn't like it." Then, thoughtfully: "Half a day's work would make that place fit for the king's pullets." "And look at the cunning little garden," urged Eveley. "Needs hoeing. All run over with weeds. Whole place going to rack and ruin. Needs a man around here, anybody can see that." "Come in, come in," cried Eveley, unlocking the kitchen door. "See the little gas stove, and the tiny table--and the cooler. Isn't it fun? Couldn't you have the time of your life here, reveling in liver and cabbage and pinochle? Wouldn't your friend be crazy about it?" The old man squirmed restlessly, and passed into the next room. Eveley dropped down on the side of the bed, and set the springs bounding. "It is a good bed. That table seems made for pinochle, doesn't it? I can just see this place, with you and your friend, the room thick with smoke--and no one to say, 'Oh, father, it's terribly late.'" Eveley put up a very fair imitation of Mrs. Severs' ripply, bridal voice. "A phonograph--there ought to be a phonograph, to play _Bonnie Sweet Bessie_, and _Nelly Gray_." "Just the thing. A phonograph. That is the one thing lacking. I knew there was something needed." Father-in-law was quiet after that. He walked about slowly, peering into every nook and corner. But finally he went out to the car, and climbed in. Eveley followed silently. He started the car with a bang and a tug, and drove home swiftly, speaking not one word on the way. But Eveley was content. Quite late that evening he came up the rustic stairs and knocked on her window. "Say, Miss Ainsworth," he asked anxiously, "did you decide to take that cottage and live alone? Pretty risky business, I'm afraid. And it's a sight of work keeping up a garden like that--and chickens are a dickens of a lot of trouble." "I am afraid so," said Eveley wistfully. "I believe your advice is good. It is a darling little place, but I suspect I'd better give up the idea entirely." "That's right. You're a sensible girl. Very sensible." And he turned abruptly and went creaking down the stairs once more.