The voice at the other end of the wire purred with approval. "I never heard anything so splendid. The last man who mentioned pompano to me became absolutely lyrical about sprigs of parsley and melted butter. Well, that's that. Now, here's another very important point. How about wall-paper?"
George pressed his unoccupied hand against his forehead.
This conversation was unnerving him.
"I didn't get that," he said.
"Didn't get what?"
"I mean, I didn't quite catch what you said that time. It sounded to me like 'What about wall-paper?'"
"It was 'What about wall-paper?' Why not?"
"But," said George weakly, "it doesn't make any sense."
"Oh, but it does. I mean, what about wall-paper for your den?"
"My den?"
"Your den. You must have a den. Where do you suppose you're going to work, if you don't? Now, my idea would be some nice quiet grass-cloth. And, of course, you would have lots of pictures and books. And a photograph of me. I'll go and be taken specially. Then there would be a piano for you to work on, and two or three really comfortable chairs. And—well, that would be about all, wouldn't it?"