‘To town? But Brighton is quite out of your way – I had imagined you had to go to Portsmouth, when you offered me a lift. Why have you come so far out of your way?’ ‘The dew-ponds, the wheatears, the pleasure of driving over grass.’ ‘What a dogged brute you are, Maturin, upon my honour,’ said Diana. ‘I shall lay out for no more compliments.’ ‘No, but in all sadness,’ said Stephen, ‘I like sitting in a chaise with you; above all when you are like this. I could wish this road might go on for ever.’
