“You recollect these fields, eh, Solomon?” and Mrs. Jericho looked in her husband’s eyes.
“To be sure; of course; green fields. One field’s pretty well like another,” answered the listless Jericho.
“And there, upon the hill; that noble clump of oaks?” said Mrs. Jericho. “Well, I do love oaks!”
“Wonderful trees, oaks,” said Hodmadod. “Extraordinary. I tell you what happened to me.”
“Oh do,” said Agatha, gently closing her hands in attitude of meekest entreaty.
“Only last autumn, I saw all the Channel Fleet. All with their sails set; all like so many clouds: when I say clouds, of course I mean canvas. Well, said I, this is wonderful. To think, said I—for it never struck me before—to think that all these three-deckers should come out of little acorns.” Then the baronet paused a second; then rapidly asked, “They do come out of acorns, don’t they?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” cried Agatha, with most assuring emphasis. “Most certainly.”
Mrs. Jericho employed her thoughts solely upon the shifting beauties of the scene. “What a lovely mass of wood, is that, rising up as it were to meet us, as we mount the hill. Quite a retreat for Druids,—don’t you think so, dearest? That wood, there,” and Mrs. Jericho appealed to her husband.
“Humph!” said Jericho; “it must be damp—devilish damp. I’m very fond of woods; very; but it’s when they’re turned into comfortable houses.”
“You hav’n’t an eye for the picturesque, Mr. Jericho,” said the hasty Hodmadod.