“You,” returned I.
“Certainly,” said he.
“Why,” I answered, “I thought this was part of Bourne’s property?”
Titbottom smiled.
“Does Bourne own the sun and sky? Does Bourne own that sailing shadow yonder? Does Bourne own the golden lustre of the grain, or the motion of the wood, or those ghosts of hills, that glide pallid along the horizon? Bourne owns the dirt and fences; I own the beauty that makes the landscape, or otherwise how could I own castles in Spain?”
That was very true. I respected Titbottom more than ever.
“Do you know,” said he, after a long pause, “that I fancy my castles lie just beyond those distant hills. At all events, I can see them distinctly from their summits.”
He smiled quietly as he spoke, and it was then I asked:
“But, Titbottom, have you never discovered the way to them?”
“Dear me! yes,” answered he, “I know the way well enough; but it would do no good to follow it. I should give out before I arrived. It is a long and difficult journey for a man of my years and habits—and income,” he added slowly.