Next he turned to the end of the letter and made
sure that the signature was "Randall Byrne." He stared again at the
handwriting. It was not the usual script of the young doctor. It was
bolder, freer, and twice as large as usual; there was a total lack of
regard for the amount of stationery consumed.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Swinnerton Loughburne shook his fine
grey head and read on: "What I want you to do, is to stir about and find
me a new apartment. Mind you, I don't want the loft of some infernal
Arcade building in the Sixties. Get me a place somewhere between
Thirtieth and Fifty-eighth. _Two_ bed-rooms. I want a place to put some
of the boys when they drop around my way. And at least one servant's
room. Also at least one large room where I can stir about and wave my
arms without hitting the chandelier. Are you with me?"
Here Swinnerton Loughburne seized his head between both hands again and
groaned: "Dementia! Plain and simple dementia! And at his age, poor
boy!"
He continued: "Find an interior decorator. Not one of these fuzzy haired
women-in-pants, but a he-man who knows what a he-man needs. Tell him I
want that place furnished regardless of expense. I want some deep chairs
that will hit me under the knees. I want some pictures on the wall--but
_nothing out of the Eighteenth Century_--no impressionistic
landscapes--no girls dolled up in fluffy stuff. I want some pictures I
can enjoy, even if my maiden aunt can't.
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