Chilvern says, pointing left and right, “Ah, these fields are the place for mushrooms.”
Boodels says that his own fields in Essex are better.
“Not better than this,” says Chilvern.
Boodels returns that they are, and that he, Boodels, ought to know.
Chilvern pauses to allow the subject to stand and cool, as it were; then he begins again.
“That's a fine cow there. This is a great place for cows. It's where all the celebrated cheeses are made.”
“Ah, my dear fellow,” cries Boodels, “you should see the cows in Gloucestershire. They are cows.”
Cazell agrees with him, but caps it with, “Yes, but I'll tell you what you ought to do,” to Chilvern: “you ought to go to the Scilly Islands, and see the cows there.”
Milburd says if it's a question of going to islands, why not to the Isle of Wight and see Cowes there? I laugh, slightly; as it doesn't do to encourage Milburd too much. The others, who are warming with their conversation, treat the joke with silent contempt.
“There's a larch for you,” cries Chilvern, in admiration of a gigantic fir-tree.