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Updated: May 23, 2025
Among spectacles, his mother, at least, asked nothing better than to see him on horseback or swinging a golf-club. "How did you come? through the Glendarra woods?" he asked of Lydia. The delight in his eyes as he turned them upon her was already evident to his mother. Lydia assented. "Then you saw the rhododendrons? Jolly, aren't they?" Lydia replied with ardour.
He had seen a good deal of Lydia Penfold during the weeks since her first appearance at Duddon. The two sisters had been induced to lunch there once or twice; there had been a picnic in the Glendarra woods; and for himself, in spite of his mother's attack, he thought he had been fairly clever in contriving excuses for calls.
Woman of fifty as she was, she was still a bundle of passions, in the intellectual and poetic sense. The sight of her own fells and streams, the sound of the Cumbrian "aa's," and "oo's," the scurrying of the sheep among the fern, the breath of the wind in the Glendarra woods, the scent of moss and heather these things rilled her with just the same thrills and gushes of delight as in her youth.
There is a place in the Glendarra woods, where the oaks and firs fall away to let a great sheet of rhododendrons sweep up from the lowland into a mountain boundary of gray crag and tumbling fern. Rose-pink, white and crimson, the waves of colour roll among the rocks, till Cumbria might seem Kashmir. Lydia's looks sparkled, as she spoke of it. The artist in her had feasted.
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