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Of all the oriental rugs that may never have existed, this must be the most fascinating.

Lock ‘Em Up!

Years ago he had discovered that the cheapest way to appear wealthy without being wealthy was to drive a vintage Porsche 928.

“But what is the top of the Oriental rug world?” she asked herself.

Of course, it is open to question whether any Oriental rug can properly be called a work of art.

The fabled and mythical sum of a million dollars! There’s something so satisfying about it.

“Shame on you!” she hissed. “Just shame!” as if he were a bad dog.

“Hate to bother, lass, but I’m having a bit of trouble, actually.”

About ten days after he had been visited by the rug gods, he arose from his desk and raised all his prices by half.

“Perhaps the gentleman would be more comfortable looking at shiny new rugs?”

Of course Sarah’s business instincts had proven sound.

He made old rugs for the joy of creating, and, besides, he loved old rugs.

He even sniffed the rugs. Something was wrong, but what?

“It’s a Bijar, man.” His voice rising now, “A Bijar, Tom. Not a sniveling little Chevy, man, but a Bently! A Rolls!”

Pope was still annoyed, so he let Holden pay for lunch.

She threw her arms wide and began singing. “Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly…” She made flying motions with both hands.

Holden’s swearing was clumsy but heart-felt.

He was pulling at his hair, evidently in a kind of ecstasy. His voice had risen to a thrilling shout.

He could no more remember learning to weave than he could remember learning to eat.

He kept glancing over at the black and tan Silver Cloud, and then he stopped talking and gazed at it as if he had never seen it before. “God!” he said. “What a splendid automobile.”

“By the time you’re finished, I want you to know how the Ferrier Dragon Rug smells.”

Though river gunk adorns it, do not fear.

“King of my castle,” he said aloud, “but you do have to defend it, don’t you?

“How are you going to get those worms out of your rug, sir? If you don’t mind me asking. And the bugs, too.”

Deane laughed his demented laugh. “Art is deception. Didn’t you know that? The better the art, the better the deception.”

There was a glow about it, an aura of age, of wool polished and browned by centuries of use.

“I’d rather have the rug, hang it on my wall and drink claret. We could sit there together and clink glasses.”

“It’s glorious, gentlemen, absolutely glorious! Fruit of the loom. Baked apples in brown sugar! Hah! You tell me!” In his stentorian voice and rounded vowels, it was hard not to believe that he was shouting about something important.

“Better get mobile,” he concluded. “That’s the first thing. New wheels.”

It was astonishing how loudly the small child could sing. Her piping filled the chamber so that those closest to her actually took a couple of steps backwards.

“Sprites are careless about money. They will say anything; do anything. It’s all the same to them.”