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At Baker Street station she asked, wearily: "Is it still far to
your house?"
"No," said I, encouragingly. "Not very far."
"But one can drive for many days through streets in London, and
there will be still streets, still houses? So they tell me in
Alexandretta. London is as big as the moon, not so?"
I felt absurdly pleased. She was capable of an idea. I had
begun to wonder whether she were not merely half-witted. The
fact of her being able to read had already cheered me.
"Many hours, yes," I corrected, "not many days. London seems big
to you?"
"Oh, yes," she said, passing her hand over her eyes. "It makes
all go round in my head. One day you will take me for a drive
through these wonderful streets. Now I am too tired. They make
my head ache."
Then she shut her eyes again and did not open them until we
stopped at Lingfield Terrace. I modified my first impression of
her animal unimpressionability. She is quite sane. If Boadicea
were to be brought back to life and be set down suddenly at
Charing Cross, her psychological condition would not be far
removed from that of an idiot.


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