a wild impulse to hunt up all those chints-covered books, and brush up my dates and paradigms, before it is too late.
THE POET AND THE EMPORIUM
"I am beginning life," he said, with a sigh. "Great Heavens! I have spent a day—a day!—in a shop. Three bedroom suites and a sideboard are among the unanticipated pledges of our affection. Have you lithia? For a man of twelve limited editions this has been a terrible day."
I saw to his creature comforts. His tie was hanging outside his waistcoat, and his complexion was like white pasteboard that has got wet. "Courage," said I. "It will not occur again———"
"It will," said he. "We have to go there again to-morrow. We have—what is it?—carpets, curtains———"
He produced his tablets. I was amazed. Those receptacles of choice thoughts?
"The amber sunlight splashing through the leaky—leafy interlacing green," he read. "No!—that's not it. Ah, here! Curtains! Drawing-room—not to cost more than thirty shillings! And there's all the Kitchen Hardware! (Thanks.) Dining-room chairs—query—rush bottoms? What's this? G. L. I. S.—ah! Glistering thro' deeps of glaucophane—that's nothing. Mem. to see can we afford Indian needle-work chairs—57s. 6d.? It's dreadful, Bellows!"
He helped himself to a cigarette.
"Find the salesman pleasant?" said I.
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