It had force and imagination.

He left his uncle with a nod, rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor.
At the top he turned and looked down.

The perfectness of the landscape struck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there--not a suburban villa, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but just the sweet common life.

The noises of the village were soothing, the soft smell of the woodland came over.

He watched a cart go by idly, heavily clacking.
As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all?
Was he out of place here?
He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself and had learned many fine social ways.