“Glorious! Sybil, utterly and splendidly glorious!” said her brother, his eyes sweeping the picture below. “And you too, Sybil,” he said, turning his eyes upon her. “This country has done you well. By jove, what a transformation from the white-faced, willowy—”
“Weedy,” said she.
“Well, as it's no longer true, weedy—woman that faded out of London, how many—eight years ago!”
“Ten years, ten long, glorious, splendid years.”
“Ten years! Surely not ten!”
“Yes, ten beautiful years.”
“I wish to God I had come with you then. I might have been—well, I should have been saved some bumps and a ghastly cropper at last.”
“'Cut it out,' Jack, as the boys say here. En avant! We never look back in this land, but ever forward. Oh, now isn't this worth while?” Again she swept her hand toward the scene below her. “Look at that waving line in the east, that broad sweep; and here at our left, those great, majestic things. I love them. I love every scar in their old grey faces. They have been good friends to me. But for them some days might have been hard to live through, but they were always there like friends, watching, understanding. They kept me steady.”
“You must have had some difficult days, old girl, in this awful land. Yes, yes, I know it's glorious, especially on a day like this and in a light like this; but after all, you are away from the world, away from everybody, and shut off from everything, from life, art—how could you stick it?”
“Jack are you sympathising with me? Let me tell you your sympathy is wasted. I have had lonely days in this land, of course. When Tom was off on business—Oh! that man has been perfectly splendid. Jack! He's been—well, I can't tell you all he has been to me—father, mother, husband, chum, he's been to me, and more. And he's made good in the country, too. Now look again at this view. We always stop to look at it, Tom and I, from this point. Tell me if you have ever seen anything quite as wonderful!”