“It holds interesting minds and interesting faces.”
“Didn’t Persia?”
“Lethargy dwells there and in all Eastern lands.”
“You have made up your mind to spend the rest of your days in the fog?”
“No. Indeed, only to-day I acquired a Campo Santo with cypress trees, in which I intend to make a home for any dying romance that still lingers within me.”
He spoke with a sort of wistful whimsicality. Carey stared hard at him.
“A Campo Santo’s a place for the dead.”
“Why not for the dying? Don’t they need holy ground as much?”
“And where’s this holy ground of yours?”
Sir Donald got up from his chair, went over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and took out of it a large photograph rolled round a piece of wood, which he handed to Carey, who swiftly spread it out on his knees.