“Yes, of course, I have.”
The Sawney asked where.
June had seen a windmill in Lincolnshire.
“Lincolnshire! Oh, but you should see the one in the National Gallery.”
“The one in the where?” said June, with a frown.
Of a sudden his voice took its delicious fall. The rare smile, which lit his face, was for June an enchantment: “It’s a Hobbema.”
“A what!—emma!”
“A Hobbema. On Saturdays the shop closes at one, so that I could take you to see it, if you’d care to. I should like you so much to see it—that’s if it interests you at all. It will give you an idea of what a windmill can be.”
“But I meant a real windmill. I’m only interested in real things, anyway.”
“A Hobbema is better than real.”