th
one of those sudden freaks of self-consciousness which occasionally
surprise one, when, midway in some slightly unconventional situation to
which the innocence of nature has led us, we realise it--"for an
instant and no more."

Positively, I think that in the embarrassment of that instant I had
made some inspired remark to Rosalind about the lovely country which
lay dreamy in the afterglow outside our window. Oh, yes, I remember the
very words. They were "What a heavenly landscape!" or something
equally striking.

"Yes," Rosalind had answered, "it is almost as beautiful as the Strand!"

If I'd known her better, I should have exclaimed, "You dear!" and I
think it possible that I did say something to that effect,--perhaps
"You dear woman!" At all events, the veil of self-consciousness was
rent in twain at that remark, and our spirits rushed together at this
touch of London nature thus unexpectedly revealed.

London! I hadn't realised till this moment how I had been missing it
all these days of rustication, and my heart went out to it with a vast
homesickness.

"Yes! the Strand," I repeated tenderly, "the Strand--at night!"

"Indeed, yes! what is more beautiful in the whole world?" she joined in
ardently.

"The wild torrents of light, the passionate human music, the hansoms,
the white shirts and shawled heads, the theatres--"

"Don't speak of them or you'll make me cry," said Rosalind.

"The little suppers after the theatre--"

"Please don't," she cried, "it is cruel;" and I saw that her eyes were
indeed glistening with tears.

"But, of course," I continued, to give a slight turn aside in our talk,
"it is very wrong of us to have such sophisticated tastes. We ought to
love these lonely hills and meadows far more. The natural man revels in
solitude, and wants no wittier company than birds and flowers.
Wordsworth made a constant companion of a pet daisy. He seldom went
abroad without one or two trotting at his side, and a skylark would
keep Shelley in society for a week."

"But they were poets," retorted Rosalind; "you don't call poets
natural. Why, they are the most unnatural of men. The natural person
loves the society of his kind, whereas the poet runs away from it."

"Well, of course, there are poets and poets, poets sociable and poets
very unsociable. Wordsworth made the country, but Lamb made the town;
and there is quite a band of poets nowadays who share his distaste for
mountains, and take