"To be sure," I say. "In my England—and I see it as plainly as you do yours—the hawthorn and primrose is always flowering. In my England it is always spring."
It is summer in theirs. It is always cool and fragrant and wholly charming in my Devonshire. It was rather hot when they got to theirs—that is, the sunny coast of it they brag of was a little trying, sometimes, I suspect, in midsummer, though neither will confess.
"But not the moors!" they say.
"Oh, well—the moors—no; I should think not," I answer. "I am not such a fool as to think that moors are hot."
"How cool are the moors?" they then inquire, innocently, but I see the trick; I hear the plot in their very voices, and am wary.
"Oh," I reply, "as cool as usual."
"But there are dense forests on the moors," Robin suggests. "Regular jungles—eh, father?"
I am not to be taken without a struggle.
"Hm," I reply.
"Hm—what, father?"