Didn't you see how brown it had gone? That," he added coolly,
"is the worst of having an artistic eye. One must pay for these
things."

After spending the night at Salisbury, we pushed on to the
Cornish coast. It was not until we were within three miles of
our village that we lost the way. When we found it again, we
were seven miles off. That is the worst of a car. However.

Stern is a place, where the coast-line is a great glory. The
cliffs rise there, tall, dark, majestic-grave, too, especially
grave. When the sky is grey, they frown always, and even the
warm rays of the setting sun but serve to light their grand
solemnity. Very different is the changing sea at their foot. At
times it will ripple all day, agog with smiling; anon, provoked
by an idle breeze's banter, you shall see it black with rage. In
the morning, maybe, it will sleep placidly enough in the
sunshine, but at eventide the wind has ruffled its temper, so
that it mutters and heaves with anger, breathing forth
threatenings. Yet the next dawn finds it alive with mischievous
merriment and splitting its sides with laughter, to think how it
has duped you the night before. The great grave cliffs and the
shifting sea, and, beyond, woodland and pastures and deep
meadows, where the cows low in the evenings, while the elms
tower above them, their leaves unshaken by the wind- it is not
difficult to grow fond of Stern.

And now we were sitting on the cliffs in the heat of the morning
sun, half a mile from the village and another from the places
where it was best to bathe.