Eventually they got both tired and discouraged,
and felt dashed in the very opening of their new life, but finally
the place was found, and they loved it instantly, and leased it
without delay. It was in a new apartment house, in East Eleventh
Street, four shiny and tiny rooms, on a fourth floor. Everything
was almost too compact and convenient, Nancy thought; the ice box,
gas stove, dumb-waiter, hanging light over the dining table,
clothes line, and garbage chute, were already in place. It left an
ambitious housekeeper small margin for original arrangement, but
of course it did save money and time. The building was of pretty
cream brick, clean and fresh, the street wide, and lined with
dignified old brownstone houses, and the location perfect. She
smothered a dream of wide old-fashioned rooms, quaintly furnished
in chintzes and white paint. They had found no such enchanting
places, except at exorbitant rents. Seventy-five dollars, or one
hundred dollars, were asked for the simplest of them, and the
plumbing facilities, and often the janitor service, were of the
poorest. So Nancy abandoned the dream, and enthusiastically
accepted the East Eleventh Street substitute, Bert becoming a
tenant in the "George Eliot," at a rental of thirty-five dollars a
month.
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