When we reached the wall-paperer's lair we were ushered by an immaculate
personage into a room that looked more like the dining-room of a private
house than a part of business premises.

"Perhaps," I said, in an awed whisper, "you don't care to have anything
to do with such trifling things as--er--wall-paper?"

"Indeed we do," said the nobleman. "Most important things, wall-papers.
Where did you want it for?"

"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.