“You have heard no lie,” Bruce said stoutly. “Surrey! Good Lord—to be in Surrey when the marrow’s in bloom and the cabbage in fruit, and the starch stands to its collar! Hot! Hot isn’t the word.”
“It is not,” Crespin agreed.
“Is Sumnee so very hot, Dr. Crossland?”
“Scorching!”
“Go on,” she prompted.
“Well—there’s nothing to tell—really there isn’t. There’s nothing to describe, because there’s nothing there. There’s scarcely a tree.”
“I shall make a garden at once, if we haven’t one.”
“You will not,” Bruce murmured.
“Go on, Dr. Crossland. There must be something to tell me.”
“And there isn’t a decent house.”