"Yes, yes, I see," I reply hastily, with a touch of "How stupid of me!" in my voice.
"Well, carry your eye along the valley on its left, over the white house"—this is the only place where there is no white house for miles—"and along the strip of road. See the strip of road?" ("See the strip of road!" I've been lost in a bog for ages.) "Well, right up as far as you can see, following that road and a little to the right, do you see a patch of trees?"
When he says "patch of trees," I know.
"Chanctonbury Ring," I say brightly. At any rate, that's finished.
"Yes; how did you know?" he asks disappointedly.
Brute that I am! Why didn't I let him say it?
Only once, as far as I can remember, was I wrong. It was in the Cotswolds and we were in a garden, on the side of a hill. From the terrace outside the house was a magnificent view. My host strolled up. "Pity it's so misty," he said. (I had just been thinking how lovely it looked.) "On a fine day, you know, we can see——"
"Not Chanctonbury Ring?" I said pleadingly.
He looked puzzled.
"Tewkesbury,", he said rather coldly, and soon afterwards strolled away again.