And it's quite out of the world here, sir, especially in the winter when the snow lies so thick that we're almost imprisoned.

But wet or fine, hot or cold, Miss Ida can always be seen riding or driving or walking; she's a regular Westmoreland lass for that; no weather frights her." At this juncture Howard sauntered out of the sitting-room, and he and Stafford went to the open door and looked out on the exquisite view which was now bathed in the soft light of a newly risen moon.
"It still has a smack of Drury Lane, hasn't it ?" said Howard.

"Strange that whenever we see anything beautiful in the way of a landscape we at once compare it with a stage 'set.' The fact of it is, my dear Stafford, we have become absolutely artificial; we pretend to admire Nature, but we are thinking of a theatre all the time; we throw up our eyes ecstatically when we hear a nightingale, but we much prefer a comic singer at the Tivoli.

We talk sentiment, at feast, some of us, but we have ceased to feel it; we don't really know what it means.

I believe some of the minor poets still write about what they call Love, but in my private opinion the thing itself has become instinct.