The place where we generally met in fine weather was on the lawn
before Milverton's house. It was an eminence which commanded a
series of valleys sloping towards the sea. And, as the sea was not
more than nine miles off, it was a matter of frequent speculation
with us whether the landscape was bounded by air or water. In the
first valley was a little town of red brick houses, with poplars
coming up amongst them. The ruins of a castle, and some water
which, in olden times, had been the lake in "the pleasaunce," were
between us and the town. The clang of an anvil, or the clamour of a
horn, or busy wheelwright's sounds, came faintly up to us when the
wind was south.

I must not delay my readers longer with my gossip, but bring them at
once into the conversation that preceded our first reading.

-----

Milverton. I tell you, Ellesmere, these are the only heights I care
to look down from, the heights of natural scenery.

Ellesmere. Pooh! my dear Milverton, it is only because the
particular mounds which the world calls heights, you think you have
found out to be but larger ant-heaps. Whenever you have cared about
anything, a man more fierce and unphilosophical in the pursuit of it
I never saw. To influence men's minds by writing for them, is that
no ambition?

Milverton. It may be, but I have it not. Let any kind critic
convince me that what I am now doing is useless, or has been done
before, or that, if I leave it undone, some one else will do it to