“Oh, this air is wonderful,” she said. “Just as if it had come straight out of the blue, all washed and clean.”
On the top of Uffdown where the cloak of pine droops to a hollow between the two peaks, they sat on a dry, yielding hedge-side, where the grass was thick as the fleece of a mountain sheep, and four lovely counties dreamed below them.
“Eddie,” she asked, half joking, “where does the west wind come from?”
Edwin was willing to instruct.
“Oh, I don’t know, dearest—from Wales and the sea, I suppose.”
“Put your head close to mine and I’ll show you. . . . Those hills that look like mountains cut out of blue cardboard are the Malverns, and far, ever so far beyond them—yes, just to the left you see a level ridge that drops suddenly in the west. You don’t know what that is, Eddie, do you?”
“No—I don’t like to look at single things. I like to feel it’s all—what d’you call it?—all dreamy underneath one.”
“But you must look at that. It’s the mountain, Eddie, close to where I was born.”
“Felindre?” he asked.
“Yes.”