The
Baden forests are superb, and the composition of the landscape is most
effective. There is always a bosky dell in the foreground, and a
purple crag embellished with a ruined tower at a proper angle. A little
timber-and-plaster village peeps out from a tangle of plum-trees, and a
way-side tavern, in comfortable recurrence, solicits concessions to the
national custom of frequent refreshment. Gordon Wright, who was a dogged
pedestrian, always enjoyed doing his ten miles, and Longueville, who was
an incorrigible stroller, felt a keen relish for the picturesqueness
of the country. But it was not, on this occasion, of the charms of the
landscape or the pleasures of locomotion that they chiefly discoursed.
Their talk took a more closely personal turn. It was a year since they
had met, and there were many questions to ask and answer, many arrears
of gossip to make up. As they stretched themselves on the grass on a
sun-warmed hill-side, beneath a great German oak whose arms were quiet
in the blue summer air, there was a lively exchange of impressions,
opinions, speculations, anecdotes. Gordon Wright was surely an excellent
friend. He took an interest in you. He asked no idle questions and made
no vague professions; but he entered into your situation, he examined
it in detail, and what he learned he never forgot.
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