"I have none."
I wheeled my machine through a gate and left it the other side of the hedge, where I hoped it would be safe till morning. We came to the house across a footpath—a small stone-gabled sixteenth-century building. A whisp of mist from a bubbling stream circled the place and gave it an air of isolation. We entered a lit room, which was of solemn aspect, and my friend gave me a deep-seated chair.
"Are you serious in saying that you do not like Dorset?" I questioned.
The little man smiled quietly, sadly.
"It is not Dorset exactly. But since I came to live here I have become a bundle of nerves. It is nothing—I think it's nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I only think—I only wonder——"
"Yes?"
"This is such an old house. All sorts of things must have happened here. And from the first moment I came into the place I had a sudden sensation of there being something unseen and unheard near me. There is an essence in this house—an influence which stifles all laughter and joy. I wonder if you will feel it as I do!"
"Bit creepy," I said, and at the same time I came to the conclusion that the old fellow was a little eccentric, and this idea of the house being on the left side of the sun was merely a foolish weakness.