“Oh no! I don’t mind any journey as long as I don’t have to cross the sea.”
“It is only two miles now.”
They climbed into a dogcart and drove, for the most part at a walk, up a long, winding road that crept like a worm along the flanks of a huge hill.
“Glorious country!” said Edward. “I love it. The South doesn’t seem to me to be country at all—just a huge park. One is afraid to walk on the grass. But here there is room and freedom. One understands why the North is Liberal.”
“It is too big for me,” replied Mendel. “But then I can’t get used to the country. I’m not myself in it. I feel in it as though I were on the edge of the world and in danger of falling off. Yes. The country seems dangerous to me, and I could never walk along a road at night.”
“How odd that is!” laughed Edward. “If I am ever afraid it is in the town. The vast masses of people do really terrify me sometimes, when I think of governing them all.”
“They can look after themselves,” said Mendel simply.
Over the shoulder of the hill they came on a grey stone house with a walled garden. Edward turned in at the gate, flicked his horse into a trot up the steep drive, and drew up by the front door, in which was standing a dainty little lady in a mauve cotton gown and a wide Leghorn straw hat.
“Here he is, my dear!” said Edward. “My wife, Kühler.”