The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. ‘Very wise,’ he commented, slightly relaxing his arm. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French.
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