"Faugh!" he said.
He walked to the windows of the further room, pulled aside the curtains and pushed the glass up, letting in the air. The bare trees were visible in the grey gloom outside. Guildea leaned out for a minute drawing the night air into his lungs. Presently he turned round to the Father, and exclaimed abruptly,
"Pestilent! Isn't it?"
"Yes—most pestilent."
"Ever hear anything like it?"
"Not exactly."
"Nor I. It gives me nausea, Murchison, absolute physical nausea."
He closed the window and walked uneasily about the room.
"What d'you make of it?" he asked, over his shoulder.
"How d'you mean exactly?"