“I want to get rid of this cursed miasma of flowers. It’s like some noxious emanation. My head aches with odours.”
“But surely it’s out of the question. Why, after this downpour, the Vale’s certain to be swampland all the way up to Water-break-its-neck.”
The yellowy doctor shook his head, smiling. “Strange, but you’re wrong. You should really dig into the lore of this region, Mr. Bannerlee. The Welsh name of our locality, I have read, is Maesyfed.”
“Oh? Meaning?”
“The absorbent field, probably. For the thirsty soil does wonders after rain; in summer even Aidenn Water sinks underground for long distances and leaves its channel dry.”
“Well, I’m in favour of getting out of here if it can be done.”
“It can; I know from previous visits. We’ll give the sun and soil a couple of hours to restore dry footing.”
“Well enough. I’ll meet you in the library.”
Salt re-entered just then and took Aire away with a few whispered words. I wandered into the dinner-room where stragglers were sitting at belated luncheon, for since yesterday’s disaster the schedule of meals seems to have fallen into anarchy. I did not stay long at the board, however; perhaps the fumes of the conservatory had stopped the pangs of appetite. I excused myself and crossed to the armoury, intending first to glance over the array of the library shelves in the hope of discovering something of interest, then to go to my room and set down some of the multitudinous details of last night and to-day.
But I never got as far as the library. I heard a strenuous young voice through its door ajar: