A flock of large black birds shot up into the sky. A rabbit watched us pass. “Is this some sort of park?” I asked. “No, no,” Mr. Grumbloch said. “It’s all part of the Pritchard estate.” The roadway curved this way and that, so I didn’t see the house until we were upon it. “That is Stagsway,” Mr. Grumbloch said. At first I couldn’t believe it was someone’s home. I thought it must be a great church, like one of the English cathedrals I had seen in pictures. It was all gables and chimneys, and so large it seemed impossible that it should be a home for just one person. The front of the house was made of a kind of white plaster. Crisscrossing the plaster were timbers set to make a design. Beyond the house were acres of trees, and beyond the trees rolling fields. It appeared tame and peaceful, not at all like the African bush. I could not imagine a leopard lying in wait among those snow-covered fields. An elderly man in a black suit stood at the entrance. I was so used to the white suits of the planters and the bright colors of the African men’s blankets that it looked to me as if all English men were in mourning.
