Of course, Seven realized that the house had changed through the years since George-the-First’s time. For one thing, there were two water marks indicated by small gold plaques showing how far up the walls the water had risen in the floods of 1948 and 1972. The two plaques were set about two feet apart, one above the other, just to the right of the marble fireplace in the waiting room. In the first George’s time, this had been a parlor and the fireplace had been workable. Now it just sat, elegant but useless; a decoration. Above it was an innocuous still life of flowers. Oversoul Seven grimaced at it and looked out of the narrow floor-to-ceiling front windows. Set right before them were huge pots of plants that instantly took Seven’s attention. He was only vaguely aware of the cars speeding by just past the front sidewalk, in a certain rhythm, as the traffic light at the corner by the bridge let swarms of traffic by. Then there was a pause until the light turned green again.

The house was built of the sturdiest red brick, so that even on this warm June day it was cool inside; and possibly the bricks muffled the traffic sounds, even though a window was open. In any case it was during one of the pauses in traffic that Oversoul Seven suddenly realized that something was wrong—again! There was a thick maroon rug on the dark wooden floor, but none in the entry way behind him. And Seven realized that he’d been hearing footsteps cross the tiled entry floor from the front door to the stairs. They’d been pacing, he realized, for some time, though no one but himself should have been in the house.

Seven whirled around, astonished, for he caught sight of George Brainbridge the First, just going up the stairs. Simultaneously, the sounds from the window seemed terribly different than they had only a moment ago. Seven spun around again. He stared, quite incredulous.

Both the nineteenth- and twentieth-century streets existed at once; or nearly. The automobiles were clearer than the horses and buggies, but only by a hair. The houses across the street shimmered back and forth from their nineteenth- to twentieth-century appearances, and back again. A new house kept disappearing and a lot took its place. The lot changed to the house again, so quickly that Seven blinked.

He turned back toward the room to rub his eyes, but to his dismay, the process hadn’t been confined to the outdoors. Objects from the nineteenth-century drawing room kept appearing in the waiting room—or rather, the waiting room kept turning into the drawing room. One mohair chair suddenly appeared, bumping Seven in the knee. He leapt back. A huge fern sprang up in the far corner.