"We owe to it the present development of South
African mining."
The lady blushed as one seldom sees a mature woman blush--but
exactly as I had seen Madame Picardet and White Heather. "Oh, I'm
so sorry," she said, in a confused way that recalled Mrs. Granton.
"Forgive my hasty speech. I--I didn't know you."
("She did," Charles whispered. "But let that pass.") "Oh, don't
think of it again; so many people disturb the birds, don't you know,
that we're obliged in self-defence to warn trespassers sometimes off
our lovely mountains. But I do it with regret--with profound regret.
I admire the--er--the beauties of Nature myself; and, therefore,
I desire that all others should have the freest possible access
to them--possible, that is to say, consistently with the superior
claims of Property."
"I see," the lady replied, looking up at him quaintly. "I admire
your wish, though not your reservation. I've just been reading
those sweet lines of Wordsworth's--
And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves.
I suppose you know them?" And she beamed on him pleasantly.
"Know them?" Charles answered. "Know them! Oh, of course, I know
them. They're old favourites of mine--in fact, I adore Wordsworth."
(I doubt whether Charles has ever in his life read a line of poetry,
except Doss Chiderdoss in the Sporting Times.
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