"It was you who gave me Keats," Alexander said. "Have you had anything printed?"
"I haven't tried. What does it matter? It's the doing of it, you see. I've never found Theresa care for anything that was not good—strange in a child, I think. Significant. She has unerring taste, if I am any judge."
"I wonder, would you let me see your things? I've never seen anything but printed stuff. I'd like to see it fresh from a man."
Edward Webb flushed deeply. "I should be very grateful for your criticism."
"I couldn't give that."
"To oblige me, please. I—I haven't had the benefit of your education. I had to leave school early, and I know but little of the classics. I thought once of pursuing them, but there is so little energy when one's work is done—exhausting, uncongenial work. I know no scholars; in fact, I know few men, and those I meet are—are like myself. I want to give Theresa more than I had."
"Yes. Shall we be going on? Across the stream. There's a little bridge farther down."
They crossed and, emerging from the birch-wood, were on the flank of the Blue Hill. A narrow path led them upwards and soon they looked down on the level valley, its few houses, the church among its yews and the winding river, fringed by trees, flowing into the wide lake. And far off there shone a thin line which was the sea. But the path wound round the hill, so that they must turn their backs on these things and face a steep ascent, with another stream rushing down the hollow at their right. Without speaking, they toiled on, Alexander walking as one born to the hills, Edward Webb panting with an attempt at noiselessness. He turned once with a forced smile, for the going was hard.
"My wind," he said, "not so good as yours."
"Let's sit down," said Alexander.