"Then the writing-desk."
"The what?"
"The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire."
"Walnut?" he said, tapping it.
"Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not in the wood but in the literary associations."
"Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still—whose was it?"
"Mine," I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a Bell-push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my——"
"Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpet, curtains——"
"Nothing else," I said coldly.
We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm returned to me.