He fumbled with his tablets. "Mats for hall—not to exceed 3s. 9d. . . . Kerbs . . . inquire tiled hearth . . . Ah! Here we are: 'Ballade of the Bedroom Suite':—
"'Noble the oak you are now displaying,
Subtly the hazel's grainings go,
Walnut's charm there is no gainsaying,
Red as red vine is your rosewood's glow,
Brave and brilliant the ash you show,
Rich your mahogany's hepatite shine,
Cool and sweet your enamel: But oh!
Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine?'
"They have 'em in the catalogue at five guineas, with a picture—quite as good they are as the more expensive ones. To judge by the picture."
"But that's scarcely the idea you started with," I began.
"No. It went wrong. Ballades often do. The preoccupation of the 'Painted Pine' was too much for me. What's this? 'N.B.—Sludge sells music stools at———' No. Here we are (first half unwritten):—
"'White enamelled, like driven snow,
Picked with just one delicate line.
Price you were saying is? Fourteen!—No!
Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine?'
"Comes round again, you see! Then L'Envoy:—
"'Salesman, sad is the truth I trow:
Winsome walnut can never be mine.
Poets are cheap. And their poetry. So
Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine?'
310
