“Hephzy,” I said, “I shan't say anything. I know perfectly well that you couldn't leave me any more than I could leave you. I have arranged with Matthews to set about house-hunting at once. As soon as rural England is ready for us, we shall be ready for it. After all, what difference does it make? I was ordered to get fresh experience. I might as well get it by becoming keeper of a sanitarium as any other way.” Hephzy looked at me. She rose from her chair. “Hosy,” she cried, “what--a sanitarium?” “We'll keep it together,” I said, smiling. “You and I and Little Frank. And it is likely to be a wonderful establishment.” Hephzy said--she said a great deal, principally concerning my generosity and goodness and kindness and self-sacrifice. I tried to shut off the flow, but it was not until I began to laugh that it ceased. “Why!” cried Hephzy. “You're laughin'! What in the world? I don't see anything to laugh at.” “Don't you? I do. Oh, dear me! I--I, the Bayport quahaug to--Ho! ho! Hephzy, let me laugh. If there is any fun in this perfectly devilish situation let me enjoy it while I can.” And that is how and why I decided to become a country gentleman instead of a traveler. When I told Matthews of my intention he had been petrified with astonishment. I had written Campbell of that intention. I devoutly wished I might see his face when he read my letter. 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.”