"All that you have said when you talked about living in cities—compared to this. This is where to live—fair weather and foul, this is the only sort of place to solve the riddle."
"What riddle?"
"Of why it should be that we must live at all. In a place like this, everything answers it. You're quite right; it's not worth living when you only live to forget that you're alive. Here everything calls to you to remember. 'Remember' is the word. Being conscious is only a stock phrase. People use it in little art circles in London. 'Remember' is the word. Listen to that gull—that's calling to you; listen to the sea—every time a wave breaks, it's the world drawing in its breath. Pavements and houses aren't alive like that. I try in London sometimes to think that the houses talk to each other—but how can they talk if they never draw a breath! Look at the sky! Look at the sea! You're absolutely right—it's impossible to forget here. I'd give all I know to live in that little cottage there in the hollow and remember the whole day long, the whole year round. But—"
"But what?"
She laid her hand on my arm again.
"It's not to be thought of," said I.
"But Cruikshank does it," said she. "Why shouldn't you? Is the cottage too small for your fifteen hundred a year? It has four rooms in it. We'd let you have it. You could make the garden instead of Cruikshank. Things would grow in that hollow—I'm sure they would. Why is it not to be thought of?"
I had the temerity to lay my hand on hers, which still was resting on my arm.
"Cruikshank does it," said I; "but then, have you forgotten—"
"Forgotten what?"