You have never found the right woman. Plenty of pets for a peccadillo or two, but never one with whom you felt you could share your life. I know the reason. You have been starved of real beauty. All the women you know here live in a kind of half world of their own, a positive demi-monde de Londres. Slinky, pale, erzatz beauties, they sleep during the day and creep out of their rabbit warrens by night, taking a cab or a car for fear of breathing in a little faintly fresh air, leaning against bars or dancing with lethargic “

“Why do you want me to go and see this farm?” asked Rollison, firmly.

“Well, at least I got the message over, I thought you weren’t ever going to tumble to it.” M.M.M. sipped his coffee, and nibbled another chocolate biscuit. “As a matter of fact, old boy, it’s owned by a buddy of mine and his sister. They inherited it as the sole relic of the Selby family fortune. The trouble really began when they tried to sell it. Mind you, I use the word ‘trouble’ in a strictly limited sense. For you it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, but for Alan and Gillian Selby it’s a headache. I mean, why should the old Scarecrow want to frighten customers off?”

“Ah,” said Rollison, straight-faced. “Does he, then.”

“Positively. And don’t get anything wrong, the Selbys are not mean. They’ve offered the old Scarecrow a cottage, rent free, damned decent of them to my way of thinking, but he won’t hear of it. Whenever a prospective buyer goes to look over the place, he casts doubts on the Selbys’ rights to the deeds, says there’ll be trouble in store for any new owner, because he’s taking it to court, and then he asserts that the place is falling to pieces and the well-water isn’t fit to drink and there’s no main water yet. He says the plumbing won’t plumb and the ceilings are falling down, and at the slightest hint of rain, it comes through the roof at a dozen places. I mean,” asked M.M.M. most earnestly, “do you think it’s right, old boy?”