“Will it have fish?”

“Plenty.”

“And it’ll run clear—not red; our Southern rivers have a red colour. And your trees will be willows, and poplars, and elms.”

Soames was a good deal puzzled. He had never been in America. The inhabitants were human, of course, but peculiar and all alike, with more face than feature, heads fastened upright on their backs, and shoulders too square to be real. Their voices clanged in their mouths; they pronounced the words ‘very’ and ‘America’ in a way that he had tried to imitate without success; their dollar was too high, and they all had motor-cars; they despised Europe, came over in great quantities, and took back all they could; they talked all the time, and were not allowed to drink. This young man cut across all these preconceptions. He drank sherry and only spoke when he was spoken to. His shoulders looked natural; he had more feature than face; and his voice was soft. Perhaps, at least, he despised Europe.

“I suppose,” he said, “you find England very small.”

“No, sir. I find London very large; and you certainly have the loveliest kind of a countryside.”

Soames looked down one side of his nose. “Pretty enough!” he said.

Then came turbot and a silence, broken, low down, behind his chair.

“That dog!” said Soames, impaling a morsel of fish he had set aside as uneatable.

“No, no, Dad! He just wants to know you’ve seen him!”

Soames stretched down a finger, and the Dandie fell on his side.

“He never eats,” said Fleur; “but he has to be noticed.”

A small covey of partridges came in, cooked.

“Is there any particular thing you want to see over here, Mr. Wilmot?” said Michael. “There’s nothing very unAmerican left. You’re just too late for Regent Street.”

“I want to see the Beefeaters; and Cruft’s Dog Show; and your blood horses; and the Derby.”

“Darby!” Soames corrected. “You can’t stay for that—it’s not till next June.”

“My cousin Val will show you race-horses,” said Fleur. “He married Jon’s sister, you know.”