I was reading the Times when a thought popped into my head. I shut my eyes, and studied its features. They fascinated me.
It was morning: and presently my Patient unawares strolled in for the eleven-o'clock glass of egg-nogg prescribed by Sir Humphrey and offered by me.
He drank it. When he had pronounced it good, I asked him casually how he was. No change. At least, none that he noticed. Except that he always felt better, more human, in my society. That was because I appeared to be a bit fed up with life, too, and didn't try to cheer him.
"On the contrary," I said, "I was just wondering whether I might ask you to cheer me. I've thought of something that might amuse me a little. Yes, I'm sure it would! Only I'm not equal to working out the details alone. If I weren't afraid it would bore you...."
"Of course it wouldn't, if it could amuse you!" His eyes lit. "Tell me what it is you want to do?"
"I'm almost ashamed. It's so childish. But it would be fun."
"If I could care to do anything at all, it would be something childish. Besides, I believe you and I are rather alike in several ways. We have the same opinions about life. We're both down on our luck."
I gave myself a mental pat on the head. I ought to succeed on the stage, if it ever came to that!
"Well," I hesitated. "I got the idea from an article in the Times. There's something on the subject every day in every paper I see, but it never occurred to me till now to get any fun out of it: the Housing Problem, you know. Not the one for the working classes—I wouldn't be so mean as to 'spoof' them—nor the Nouveaux Pauvres, of whom I'm one! It's for the Nouveaux Riches. They're fair game."
"What do you want to do to them?" asked Terry Burns.