He called Anthea in one day to show her a beautiful necklace of purple and gold beads.
“I saw one like that,” she said, “in—”
“In the British Museum, perhaps?”
“I like to call the place where I saw it Babylon,” said Anthea cautiously.
“A pretty fancy,” said the learned gentleman, “and quite correct too, because, as a matter of fact, these beads did come from Babylon.”
The other three were all out that day. The boys had been going to the Zoo, and Jane had said so plaintively, “I’m sure I am fonder of rhinoceroses than either of you are,” that Anthea had told her to run along then. And she had run, catching the boys before that part of the road where Fitzroy Street suddenly becomes Fitzroy Square.
“I think Babylon is most frightfully interesting,” said Anthea. “I do have such interesting dreams about it—at least, not dreams exactly, but quite as wonderful.”
“Do sit down and tell me,” said he. So she sat down and told. And he asked her a lot of questions, and she answered them as well as she could.
“Wonderful—wonderful!” he said at last. “One’s heard of thought-transference, but I never thought I had any power of that sort. Yet it must be that, and very bad for you, I should think. Doesn’t your head ache very much?”
He suddenly put a cold, thin hand on her forehead.