§ 6
The night after he had signed the agreement for Glen Cottage, Francis dined at Harley Street.
“A fine pair of idiots you two seem to have made of yourselves while I’ve been away,” commented Heron Baynet, who had just returned from a fortnight’s holiday, after listening for over an hour to the usual chatter of people obsessed with new possessions. “Within six months, you’ll both be yearning for London.”
“I wonder,” said Francis. “Certainly Arlsfield doesn’t possess a picture-palace. . . .”
“Arlsfield,” interrupted the doctor, (as if by common consent, neither had mentioned the name of that unhappy village), “Arlsfield!”
For a moment he sat perfectly still, staring at one of the electric candle-sticks on the dinner-table: then he pulled note-book and pencil out of his pocket; turned to Patricia; and said, in the level voice of the consulting-room:—
“You mentioned a little while ago, Pat, that this house—what’s its name again?—Sunflowers—thanks—seemed familiar to you. I want you to describe to me, as accurately as you can, just in what way it seemed familiar.”
“Why do you want to know, pater?”
“Never mind about that. Tell me just how you felt both before you came to it and when you were in it. . . .”
Astonished, Patricia began her story, doing her utmost to recall each fleeting sensation of that first afternoon.