"That would
be a good place," he said.
Naturally I referred to his last speech of some hours before;
and supposed he meant that it would be promising for agriculture.
As a fact, it was quite unpromising; and this made me suddenly understand
the quiet ardour in his eye. All of a sudden I saw what he really meant.
He really meant that this would be a splendid place to pick out another
white horse. He knew no more than I did why it was done; but he was
in some unthinkable prehistoric tradition, because he wanted to do it.
He became so acute in sensibility that he could not bear to pass
any broad breezy hill of grass on which there was not a white horse.
He could hardly keep his hands off the hills. He could hardly
leave any of the living grass alone.
Then I left off wondering why the primitive man made so many
white horses. I left off troubling in what sense the ordinary
eternal man had sought to scar or deface the hills. I was content
to know that he did want it; for I had seen him wanting it.
The Long Bow
I find myself still sitting in front of the last book by Mr. H. G. Wells,
I say stunned with admiration, my family says sleepy with fatigue.
I still feel vaguely all the things in Mr. Wells's book which I
agree with; and I still feel vividly the one thing that I deny.
I deny that biology can destroy the sense of truth, which alone can
even desire biology.
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