"Naturally," I said. "Candles trimmed, and all that sort of thing. You don't suppose that I could meet the Countess? Well, I'm sorry. What's the bit of red paper on the wall? Is it over a dirty spot?"
"It's to stir up my ideas. It's gay and when I look at it I think of something."
"And then I suppose that you look out of that window, against that brick wall and those windows opposite, and write poems—a sonnet to the girl who stuck out her tongue at me."
"Oh, yes."
"Hot in summer up here?"
"Yes."
"And cold in winter?"
"Yes."
"And I suppose that you get some ideas out of that old tin bath-tub and those ash-cans."
"Well, hardly."