It didn’t take; I mean, he didn’t start at the name, as I had supposed he would. He merely said:
“I will so report it.”
“Why, the surrounding regions are filled with the noise of late wonders that have happened here! You didn’t hear of them?”
“Ah, ye will remember we move by night, and avoid speech with all. We learn naught but that we get by the telephone from Camelot.”
“Why they know all about this thing. Haven’t they told you anything about the great miracle of the restoration of a holy fountain?”
“Oh, that? Indeed yes. But the name of this valley doth woundily differ from the name of that one; indeed to differ wider were not pos—”
“What was that name, then?”
“The Valley of Hellishness.”
“That explains it. Confound a telephone, anyway. It is the very demon for conveying similarities of sound that are miracles of divergence from similarity of sense. But no matter, you know the name of the place now. Call up Camelot.”
He did it, and had Clarence sent for. It was good to hear my boy’s voice again. It was like being home. After some affectionate interchanges, and some account of my late illness, I said: