“But I have a choice of two very comfortable little cars. Why not be my guest?”
“That might be more convenient.”
“I’d prefer my own car.”
“Then what do you say?”
“I agree. Peripatetic treatment.”
“South and west. We could talk on the road. In the evenings. By the wayside. We might make the beginnings of a treatment. ... A simple tour. Nothing elaborate. You wouldn’t bring a man?”
“I always drive myself.”
§ 3
“There’s something very pleasant,” said the doctor, envisaging his own rash proposal, “in travelling along roads you don’t know and seeing houses and parks and villages and towns for which you do not feel in the slightest degree responsible. They hide all their troubles from the road. Their backyards are tucked away out of sight, they show a brave face; there’s none of the nasty self-betrayals of the railway approach. And everything will be fresh still. There will still be a lot of apple-blossom—and bluebells.... And all the while we can be getting on with your affair.”
