"For a room in my house, of course," I said. "Not for the garden."
"Oh, not for the garden. And what sort of house is yours?" he asked.
"A very nice house," I said.
"I meant what was the style of the house—Jacobean, Georgian?"
"Brixtonian rococo outwardly," I said, "as far as I can judge; but very snug inside. No doubt you could show us something we should like which would also satisfy your sense of propriety."
"I think it might be managed," he said, waving his hand towards two or three giant books of patterns.
"What we want," I said, "is something meaty."
"Ah, for the dining-room," he said.
"Well, it's a courtesy title," I said, "but really in these hard times we have reduced economy to such a fine art that I thought a wall-paper with body in it might help matters."
"I think I catch the idea," said the marquis. "Something that would make you feel more satisfied after dinner than you otherwise would feel, as it were."