"We _will_ get one of these houses!" Father vowed. "I thought you'd like them. I swear, I'll cut out my smoking, if necessary. Say! Got another idea! I wonder if we couldn't make up some excuse and butt into the bungalow that's been rented, and see how it looks furnished. I understand there's some new-comers living there. We'll sort of make them a neighborly call." "Oh, do you think we ought to?" Mother, she who had faced a sheriff's shot-gun, was timorous about facing an irate matron, and she tagged hesitatingly after Father as he marched along the row of bungalows, up the steps of the one that was rented, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a maid, in a Lipsittsville version of a uniform. "Lady or gent o' the house in?" asked Father, airily sticking his new derby on one side of his head and thrusting a thumb in an armhole, very impudent and fresh and youthful. "No, sir," said the maid, stupidly. Mother sighed. To tell the truth, she had wanted to see the promised land of this bungalow. "Well, say, girl, Mrs. Appleby and I are thinking of renting one of these here bungalonies, like the fellow says, and I wonder if we could take a look at this house, to see how it looks furnished?" The maid stared dumbly at him, looked suspiciously at Mother. Apparently she decided that, though the flamboyant Father was likely to steal everything in the house, Mother was a person to be trusted, and she mumbled, "Yass, I gass so." Father led the way in, and Mother stumbled over every possible obstacle, so absorbed was she by the intimate pleasantness which furniture gave to this big living-room--as large as the whole of their flat in New York. Actually, the furniture wasn't impressive--just a few good willow chairs, a big couch, a solid table. There were only two or three pictures, one rug, and, in the built-in shelves, no books at all. But it had space and cheerfulness; it was a home. "Here's the dining-room, with butler's pantry, and that door on the right looks like it might be a bedroom," Father announced, after a hasty exploration, while the maid stared doubtfully. He went on, half whispering, "Let's peep into the bedroom." "No, no, we mustn't do that," Mother insisted, but regretfully. For she was already wondering where, if she were running things, she would put a sewing-machine. She had always agreed with Matilda Tubbs that sewing-machines belonged in bedrooms.