“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question. _I cannot decorate._” “Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to do is to look at a room.” Titus inspired. “Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or frighten all who beheld its execution.” “That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.” “No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——” “My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him out?” Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair. “It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I shall come all unstuck.” “Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——” “Supposing it is panelled.” “Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for the walls to be done in canary.” “There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——” “What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?” “Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.” “Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and there you are. What could be better?” “That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”