“Is that George?” asked a voice. It seemed familiar, but all female voices sound the same over the telephone.
“This is George,” he replied. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you know my voice?”
“I do not.”
“You’ll know it quite well before long. I’m a great talker.’
“Is that Billie?”
“It is not Billie, whoever Billie may be. I am female, George.”
“So is Billie.”
“Well, you had better run through the list of your feminine friends till you reach me.”
“I haven’t any feminine friends.”
“None?”
“That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“You told me in the garden two nights ago that you looked on me as a pal.”
George sat down abruptly. He felt boneless.
“Is–is that you?” he stammered. “It can’t be–Maud!”
“How clever of you to guess. George, I want to ask you one or two things. In the first place, are you fond of butter?”
George blinked. This was not a dream. He had just 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?”
“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.”
George dropped the receiver. It clashed against the side of the table. He groped for it blindly.
“Hello!” he said.
“Don’t say ‘Hello!’ It sounds so abrupt!”
“What did you say then?”
“I said ‘Don’t say Hello!'”
“No, before that! Before that! You said something about getting married.”
“Well, aren’t we going to get married? Our engagement is announced in the Morning Post.”
“But–But–”
“George!” Maud’s voice shook. “Don’t tell me you are going to jilt me!” she said tragically. “Because, if you are, let me know in time, as I shall want to bring an action for breach of promise. I’ve just met such a capable young man who will look after the whole thing for me. He wears a bowler hat on the side of his head and calls waitresses ‘Mabel’. Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Will you marry me?”