sky blue, with only a little white puff of cloud here and there. Phil paused to look down the combe, with all the folds of the downs that wrapped it about, going off in blue outlines into the distance, and said it was "a jolly view"--which amused Elinor more than if he had used the finest language, and showed that he was beginning (she thought) to care a little for the things which pleased her. "And I suppose you could see a man coming by that bit of road." "Yes," said Elinor, "you could see a man coming--or going: but, unless you were to make believe very strong, like the Marchioness, you could not make out who the man was." "What Marchioness?" said Phil. "I didn't know you had anybody with a title about here. I say, Nell, it's a very jolly view, but hideously dull for you, my pet, to have lived so long here." "I never found it in the least dull," she said. "Why, there is nothing to do! I suppose you read books, eh? That's what you call amusing yourself. You ought to have made the old lady take you about a deal, abroad, and all over the place: but I expect you have never stood up for yourself a bit, Nell." "Don't call mamma the old lady, Phil. She is not old, and far prettier than most people I know." "Well, she should have done it for herself. Might have picked up a good match, eh? a father-in-law that would have left you a pot of money. You don't mean to say you wouldn't have liked that?" "Oh, Phil, Phil! I wish you could understand." "Well, well, I'll let the old girl alone." And then came the point at which Phil improved so much. "Tell me what you've been reading last," he said. "I should like to know what you are thinking about, even if I don't understand it myself. I say, Nell, who do you think that can be dashing so fast along the road?" "It is the people at Reddown," she said. "I know their white horses. They always dash along as if they were in the greatest hurry. Do you really want to know what I have been reading, Phil? though it is very little, I fear, because of the dressmakers and--all the other things." "You see," he said, "when you have lots to do you can't keep up with your books: which is the reason why I never pretend to read--I have no time." "You might find a little time. I have seen you look very much bored, and complain that there was nothing to do." "Never when you were there, Nell, that I'll answer for--but of course there are times when a fellow isn't doing anything much. What would you have me read? There's always the _Sporting and Dramatic_, you know, the _Pink 'un_, and a few more." "Oh, Phil! you don't call them literature, I hope." "I don't know much about what you call literature. There's Ruff, and Hoyle, and--I say, Nell, there's a dog-cart going a pace! Who can that be, do you suppose?" "I don't know all the dog-carts about. I should think it was some one coming from the station."