judge) some internal pain.  I tried to tell him that there was quite a lot of middle-class people like myself in the country, people of limited or precarious means, whose existence he seemed to ignore; assured him some of them led quite beautiful lives.  But he had no ideas beyond wardrobes.  I quite forgot the business of shopping in an attempt to kindle a little human enthusiasm in his heart.  We were in a great vast place full of wardrobes, with a remote glittering vista of brass bedsteads—­skeleton beds, you know—­and I tried to inspire him with some of the poetry of his emporium; tried to make him imagine these beds and things going east and west, north and south, to take sorrow, servitude, joy, worry, failing strength, restless ambition in their impartial embraces.  He only turned round to Annie, and asked her if she thought she could do with ‘enamelled.’  But I was quite taken with my idea——­Where is it?  I left Annie to settle with this misanthrope, amidst his raw frameworks of the Homes of the Future.”

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 wine 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.

“Not; 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?’

“Prosaic!  As all true poetry is, nowadays.  But, how I tired as the afternoon moved on!  At first I was interested in the shopman’s amazing lack of imagination, and the glory of that fond dream of mine—­love in a cottage, you know—­still hung about me.  I had ideas come—­like that Ballade—­and every now and then Annie told me to write notes.  I think my last gleam of pleasure was in choosing the drawing-room chairs.  There is scope for fantasy in chairs.  Then——­”