A spontaneous aptness marked his dialogue with Miss Moorhouse, and the laughing words he now and then addressed to Fanny.

For a short time Buckland was laconic, but at length he entered into the joyous tone of the occasion.
Earwaker would have stood in amazement, could he have seen and heard the saturnine denizen of Peckham Rye.
The weather was superb.

A sea-breeze mitigated the warmth of the cloudless sun, and where a dark pine-tree rose against the sky it gave the azure depths a magnificence unfamiliar to northern eyes.
'On such a day as this,' remarked Miss Moorhouse, dividing her look between Buckland and his friend, 'one feels that there's a good deal to be said for England.' 'But for the vile weather,' was Warricombe's reply, 'you wouldn't know such enjoyment.' 'Oh, I can't agree with that for a moment! My capacity for enjoyment is unlimited.

That philosophy is unworthy of you; it belongs to a paltry scheme called "making the best of things".' 'In which you excel, Miss Moorhouse.' 'That she does!' agreed Fanny--a laughing, rosy-cheeked maiden.
'I deny it! No one is more copious in railing against circumstances.' 'But you turn them all to a joke,' Fanny objected.
'That's my profound pessimism.

I am misunderstood.