She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. The movement was fatal to her son. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton.
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