I cannot see the interior of the house at all clearly, with the exception of one room.  I do not know where the front door is, nor have I ever seen any of the upper rooms.  The one exception is a big room on the right of the house as one looks at it from the main road.  This room I see with great distinctness.  It is large and low, papered with a white paper and with a parquetry floor, designed for a music room.  There is a grand piano, but what I see most clearly are a good many books, rather inconveniently placed in low white bookcases which run round most of the room, under the windows, with three shelves in each.  It seems to me to be a bad arrangement, because it would be necessary to stoop down so much for the books, but I do not think that there is much reading done in the room.  There are several low armchairs draped in a highly coloured chintz with a white ground; there are pictures on the walls, but I cannot see them distinctly.  I think they are water-colours.  The curtains are of a very peculiar and bright blue.  A low window-seat runs round the oriel, with cushions of the same blue.  It is in this room only that I see the two people, always together; and I have never seen anyone else in the house.  They are seen in certain definite positions, oftenest standing together looking out of the window, which must face the west, because I see the sunset out of it.  As a rule, the woman’s hand is passed through the man’s arm.

The vision simply flashes across my mind like a picture, whatever I am doing at the time.  Sometimes I see it several times in a week, sometimes not for weeks together.  I should recognise the house in a moment if I saw it; I do not think I should recognise the people.  I cannot see the shapes of their features or their expressions, but I can see the bloom on the wife’s cheek and its pure outline.

To the best of my knowledge I have never seen either the people or the house in real life; and yet I have strongly the sense that it is a real house and that the people are real. it does not seem to me like a mere imagination, because it comes too distinctly and too accurately for that.  Nor does it seem to me to be a mere combination of things which I have seen.  The curious part of it is that some parts of the vision are absolutely clear—­thus I can see the very texture of the smooth plaster of the house, and the oak beams inset; and I can also see the fabric of the man’s clothes and the colour of his hair; but, however much I interrogate my memory or my fancy about other details, they are all involved in a sort of mist which I cannot pierce.  It is this which convinces me of the reality of the house, and makes me believe that it is not imagination; because, if it were, I think I should have enlarged my vision of the whole; but this I cannot do.  There is a door, for instance, in the music-room, which is sometimes open, but even so I cannot see anything outside in the hall or passage to which it leads.  Moreover, though I can recollect the visions with absolute distinctness, I cannot evoke them.  I may be reading or writing, and I suddenly see in my mind the house across the meadows; or I am in the music-room, and the two figures are standing together in the window.