For some months after our marriage, Euphemia and I boarded. But we
did not like it. Indeed, there was no reason why we should like
it. Euphemia said that she never felt at home except when she was
out, which feeling, indicating such an excessively unphilosophic
state of mind, was enough to make me desire to have a home of my
own, where, except upon rare and exceptional occasions, my wife
would never care to go out.

If you should want to rent a house, there are three ways to find
one. One way is to advertise; another is to read the
advertisements of other people. This is a comparatively cheap way.
A third method is to apply to an agent. But none of these plans
are worth anything. The proper way is to know some one who will
tell you of a house that will exactly suit you. Euphemia and I
thoroughly investigated this matter, and I know that what I say is
a fact.

We tried all the plans. When we advertised, we had about a dozen
admirable answers, but in these, although everything seemed to
suit, the amount of rent was not named. (None of those in which
the rent was named would do at all.) And when I went to see the
owners, or agents of these suitable houses, they asked much higher
rents than those mentioned in the unavailable answers--and this,
notwithstanding the fact that they always asserted that their terms
were either very reasonable or else greatly reduced on account of
the season being advanced. (It was now the fifteenth of May.)

Euphemia and I once wrote a book,--this was just before we were
married,--in which we told young married people how to go to
housekeeping and how much it would cost them. We knew all about