Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. You have neither reason nor logic. . I suppose I ought to have been a man. I’ll be waiting for you outside.
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