"Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this butt-end of nowhere."

"Same here. I've aye thought there was something terrible nice about
a wee cape with a village at the neck of it and a burn each side."

"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed by a
particular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?"

Dickson shook his head.

"Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key lies.
Cape--woods--two rivers--moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?"

Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word rarely mentioned in his
circle except on death-beds, "I've been a married man for thirty
years," he said hurriedly.

"That won't do. It should have been a hopeless affair-the last
sight of the lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides--that
kind of thing, you know, or it might have happened to an ancestor....
But you don't look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments.
More likely some scoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in
this sort of place. Do you dream about it?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same
prepossession as you. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on
the map this morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in