Vinnie smiles. Ignorant as the man is, in a sense he is onto something, like those of her British friends who sometimes remark that she isn’t really much like an American. Vinnie knows that their idea of “an American” is a media convention. Nevertheless, she has often thought that, having been born and raised in what they call “the States,” she is an anomaly; that both psychologically and intellectually she is essentially English. That her seatmate should assume the same thing is pleasing; it will make a nice story for her friends.

But Vinnie also feels uneasy about the misunderstanding. As a teacher and a scholar she finds errors of fact displeasing; her instinct is to correct them as soon as possible. Besides, if she doesn’t correct this particular error, the heavy red-faced man in the aisle seat will realize his mistake when he sees her in the queue labeled “ NON-COMMONWEALTH PASSPORTS.” Or possibly he will think Vinnie is making a mistake, and will loudly try to help her out. No; she must explain to him before they land that she isn’t British.

A bare announcement, however, seems graceless; and having discouraged her seatmate’s attempt to interrupt her reading so often, Vinnie hesitates to interrupt his-particularly since he is now deep into Little Lord Fauntleroy, one of whose minor characters, the outspoken democratic grocer Mr. Hobbs, he somewhat resembles. She sighs and looks out the window, where the air is now darkening above a scarlet horizon line, planning a casual reference to her American citizenship. When I first read that book, when I was a little girl in Connecticut… Then she looks at Mr. Hobbs, willing him to turn and speak; but he does not do so. He reads steadily on, increasing Vinnie’s respect both for him and for Frances Hodgson Burnett, the book’s author