“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——”
“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?”
“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.”
“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and there you are. What could be better?”
“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”
“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait till——”
“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my time. No viva voces for me. They can bite the opinion if they like, but——”
“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot.
The lady was perfectly right.
At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six, put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were asked to survey at least three rooms.