"Then prepare me my dinner. And serve it outside, under the grapevine, where I can see the view."
The woman started to obey. The man came nearer.
"Shall I carry your bags to the bedroom?"
"Yes. And I will go with you and unpack."
He took me to a room on the second floor. There was a bed there and a very old chest of drawers. The floor, everything about the room was spotlessly clean. The walls had been freshly whitewashed. Their smooth whiteness suggested wonderful possibilities for despoliation, the drawing of a picture, the writing of a poem, the careless writhing autograph that caused my relatives so much despair.
"Have all the masters slept here?" I asked carelessly.
"All."
"Was there one by the name of George Seabrook?"
"I think so. But they come and go. I am old and forget."
"And all these masters, none of them ever wrote on the walls?"