Sir Keith had been ill in Bournemouth, I found, from the effects of a chill, caught on the day of our first encounter, "A touch of rheumatic fever," he said carelessly. Since then he and his mother had been abroad, and he "would have liked to go on to Italy, for a peep at Mrs. Romilly, had that been practicable."
He seemed interested to find that I had never been out of England; and soon the subject of Beckdale came up, whereupon he spoke with warmth of Yorkshire scenery.
"That part of the West Riding is quite unique in style," he said; "I have never seen anything resembling it anywhere else."
"Not in Scotland?" I asked.
"I am not comparing degrees of beauty," he said. "That is another question. Mountains two thousand feet high cannot vie with mountains four thousand feet high: and there are views in Scotland which I don't think can be rivalled anywhere. No, not even in Switzerland. The two are so unlike in kind, one can't compare them. But the Yorkshire dales are peculiar to Yorkshire. English people don't half know the loveliness of their own country. I could envy you the first sight of such surroundings."
He went on to describe briefly the lone heights and passes, the long parallel valleys or "dales," the brawling "tea-coloured" torrents, the extraordinary deep caves and underground waterfalls, the heather colouring, the frank kind simplicity and honesty of the "northeners." Thyrza drew near, looking interested, and I was quite sorry when we had to part.
"How is my particular pet, the Elf?" he asked, with a smile, as we shook hands.
"Elfie is all right," Thyrza's brusque tone answered.
Sir Keith vanished, and I said, "He looks delicate."
"I don't think he ever is very strong," said Thyrza, at once natural again. "He never makes any fuss about his health; but Lady Denham fusses for him."