“We will go and look at them instantly,” said Mrs. March.  “Or, as soon as you’ve had coffee with us.”

“Never do,” Fulkerson replied.  He gathered up his hat and stick.  “Just rushed in to say Hello, and got to run right away again.  I tell you, March, things are humming.  I’m after those fellows with a sharp stick all the while to keep them from loafing on my house, and at the same time I’m just bubbling over with ideas about ’The Lone Hand—­wish we could call it that!—­that I want to talk up with you.”

“Well, come to breakfast,” said Mrs. March, cordially.

“No; the ideas will keep till you’ve secured your lodge in this vast wilderness.  Good-bye.”

“You’re as nice as you can be, Mr. Fulkerson,” she said, “to keep us in mind when you have so much to occupy you.”

“I wouldn’t have anything to occupy me if I hadn’t kept you in mind, Mrs. March,” said Fulkerson, going off upon as good a speech as he could apparently hope to make.

“Why, Basil,” said Mrs. March, when he was gone, “he’s charming!  But now we mustn’t lose an instant.  Let’s see where the places are.”  She ran over the half-dozen agents’ permits.  “Capital-first-rate-the very thing-every one.  Well, I consider ourselves settled!  We can go back to the children to-morrow if we like, though I rather think I should like to stay over another day and get a little rested for the final pulling up that’s got to come.  But this simplifies everything enormously, and Mr. Fulkerson is as thoughtful and as sweet as he can be.  I know you will get on well with him.  He has such a good heart.  And his attitude toward you, Basil, is beautiful always—­so respectful; or not that so much as appreciative.  Yes, appreciative—­that’s the word; I must always keep that in mind.”

“It’s quite important to do so,” said March.

“Yes,” she assented, seriously, “and we must not forget just what kind of flat we are going to look for.  The ‘sine qua nons’ are an elevator and steam heat, not above the third floor, to begin with.  Then we must each have a room, and you must have your study and I must have my parlor; and the two girls must each have a room.  With the kitchen and dining room, how many does that make?”

“Ten.”

“I thought eight.  Well, no matter.  You can work in the parlor, and run into your bedroom when anybody comes; and I can sit in mine, and the girls must put up with one, if it’s large and sunny, though I’ve always given them two at home.  And the kitchen must be sunny, so they can sit in it.  And the rooms must all have outside light.  And the rent must not be over eight hundred for the winter.  We only get a thousand for our whole house, and we must save something out of that, so as to cover the expenses of moving.  Now, do you think you can remember all that?”

“Not the half of it,” said March.  “But you can; or if you forget a third of it, I can come in with my partial half and more than make it up.”