Since he could not play tennis much, Festing did not see why she had done so, but agreed when she insisted.
So far, he had followed her instructions and admitted that she had directed him well, because it was hard to imagine there was anything in England finer than the country he had seen.

The mountains had not the majestic grandeur of the British Columbian ranges, but they were wild enough, and pierced by dales steeped in sylvan beauty.

The chasm in which he now rested had an impressive ruggedness.
Blinks of sunshine touched the lower face of the crag, and in their track the dark rock glittered with a steely luster, but trails of mist rolled among the crannies above.

Below, a precipitous slope of small stones that the dalesmen call a scree ran down to a hollow strewn with broken rocks, and across this he could distinguish the blurred flat top of another height.

The mountain dropped to a dale that looked profoundly deep, although he could not see its bottom.
The light was puzzling.