A Damsel in Distress

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."