right."

She interrupted him, a little troubled and a good deal amazed: "Oh, you
mustn't, mustn't speak like that. It's not so. How can one see and
learn unless one sees and knows the world? Surely one can't think wisely
if one doesn't see widely?"

He changed his tactics instantly. The world--that was the thing? Well,
then, she should see the world, through him, with him.

"Yes, yes, you're right," he answered. "You can't know things unless you
see widely. You must see the world. This island, what is it? I was
born here, don't I know! It's a foothold in the world, but it's no more;
it's not afield to walk in, why, it's not even a garden. No, it's the
little patch of green we play in in front of a house, behind the
railings, before we go out into the world and learn how to live."

They had now reached the highest point on the island, where a flagstaff
stood. Guida was looking far beyond Jersey to the horizon line. There
was little haze, the sky was inviolably blue. Far off against the
horizon lay the low black rocks of the Minquiers. They seemed to her, on
the instant, like stepping-stones. Beyond would be other stepping-
stones, and others and others still again, and they would all mark the
way and lead to what Philip called the world. The world! She felt a
sudden little twist of regret at her heart. Here she was like a cow
grazing within the circle of its tether--like a lax caterpillar on its
blade of grass. Yet it had all seemed so good to her in the past; broken
only by little bursts of wonder and wish concerning that outside world.

"Do we ever learn how to live?" she asked. "Don't we just go on from