‘My father’—he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)—‘says that there is only one perfect view—the view of the sky straight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies of it’
‘He told us another day that views are really crowds—crowds of threes and houses and hills—and are bound to resemble each other, like human crowds—and that th power they have over us is something supernatural, for the same reason’.
Lucy’s lips parted.
‘For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets added to it—no one knows how—just as something has got to be added to those hills’.
He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs.
‘Also that men fall in two classes—those who forget views and those who remember them, even in small rooms.’