“I don’t know of what use all this is. For the matter of that I remember less about localities than of my own feelings.”
“Come, try now, or I’ll think you are tricking me.”
“I’ve a notion that I passed over a little bridge and under a high red shaky gable, that somehow made me think of Almkvist’s story, The Mill. That was surely just before my digression.”
Axelson’s eyes gleamed.
“My good fellow, you must have taken a remarkable circuit, because the mill lies just two and a half minutes’ journey outside the town. Do you by any chance remember a giant oak almost dead, which stood down on the slope away from the others?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“Good, good! Then I may tell you that about a hundred yards from the place of your meeting stood a dwelling-house, though you could not see it; an ordinary, white-plastered, fire-insured, fairly well mortgaged, decent two-story house with young folks and servants and a croquet ground. So the wonderful loneliness didn’t amount to much.”
Modin carefully tied his necktie.
“You’re making a fantastically vain attempt to rob me of my illusions.”
“Just one more question: Do you remember something special in the white lady’s appearance?”