George blinked. This was not a dream. He had just bumped his knee
against the corner of the telephone table, and it still hurt most
convincingly. He needed the evidence to assure himself that he was
awake.
"Butter?" he queried. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, if you don't even know what butter means, I expect it's
all right. What is your weight, George?"
"About a hundred and eighty pounds. But I don't understand."
"Wait a minute." There was a silence at the other end of the wire.
"About thirteen stone," said Maud's voice. "I've been doing it in
my head. And what was it this time last year?"
"About the same, I think. I always weigh about the same."
"How wonderful! George!"
"Yes?"
"This is very important. Have you ever been in Florida?"
"I was there one winter."
"Do you know a fish called the pompano?"
"Yes."
"Tell me about it."
"How do you mean? It's just a fish. You eat it."
"I know. Go into details."
"There aren't any details. You just eat it."
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?"
George pulled himself together.
"Hello!" he said.
"Why do you say 'Hello'?"
"I forgot I was in London. I should have said 'Are you there?'"
"Yes, I'm here."
"Well, then, what does it all mean?"
"What does what mean?"
"What you've been saying--about butter and pompanos and wall-paper
and my den and all that? I don't understand."
"How stupid of you! I was asking you what sort of wall-paper you
would like in your den after we were married and settled down."