Brocklehurst looked at him curiously. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’
‘Yes, I believe it—or I used to believe it. There is something about it in the Theætetus of Plato.’
‘You have read Plato?’
‘Only a little. I used to read him with my father.’
‘And that is where you got your idea?’
‘Oh no; I have always had it. It has been like a part of my life.... You see my dreams are rather peculiar ... I go back in them always to the same place—this garden—and I carry the memory of one life with me into the other.... Do you understand now? I can’t put it any plainer, because I am a little confused myself. Some day it may become clearer, and I may be able to tell you better.’
‘Well!—till then——’ and Brocklehurst drew himself up on to the wall and drummed with his heels against the stones.
‘Till then?’
‘Do you talk in this way to every one?’