“That isn’t barley. It’s wheat.”
“—barley, trees—delightful, my dear Alexander! But how much more delightful seen like this in one charming flash, that leaves a picture printed on the brain only to give way the next instant to another equally charming one, than stuck down in the middle, for instance, of one of those fields of barley——”
“Wheat.”
“—of barley, with the prospect of a ten-mile walk in this blazing sunshine between you and the next long drink. Don’t you agree?”
“No.”
“I thought you wouldn’t. But reflect. Sunshine, considered from the purely æsthetic point of view, is, I am quite willing to grant you, a thing of——”
“What are you talking about?” Alec asked despairingly.
“Sunshine, Alexander,” returned Roger blandly.
“Well, for goodness’ sake stop talking about sunshine. What I want to know is, have you got any farther?”
Roger was evidently in one of his maddening moods.