"Sure," Elkan replied; and there was a certain pride in his tones. "Antics is what I said, Mr. Gans—Jacobson chairs and them—now—cat's furniture."
"Cat's furniture?" Gans repeated. "What d'ye mean cat's furniture?"
"Angry cats," Elkan explained; and then a great light broke upon B. Gans.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "You mean Henri Quatre furniture?"
"Hungry cat oder angry cat," Elkan said. "All I know is we are refurnishing our flat, Mr. Gans, and we are taking an advice from Max Merech, our designer. It's a funny thing about that feller, Mr. Gans—with garments he is right up to the minute, aber mit furniture nothing suits him unless it would be anyhow a hundred years old."
"So you are buying some antique furniture for your flat?" B. Gans commented, and Elkan nodded.
"We made a start anyhow," he said. "We bought a couple Jacobson chairs—two hundred and fifty years old already."
"Good!" B. Gans exclaimed. "I want to tell you, Elkan, you couldn't go far wrong if you would buy any piece of furniture over a hundred years old. They didn't know how to make things ugly in them days—and Jacobean chairs especially. I am furnishing my whole dining room in that period and my library in Old French. It costs money, Elkan, but it's worth it."
Elkan nodded and steered the conversation into safer channels; so that by the time Miss Scheindler had brought in the letter they were discussing familiar business topics.