Jim stared from one to the other in amazement. “But America is the largest and most progressive part of the Anglo-Saxon race,” he protested. “They are already ahead of us in many ways.”
Miss Proudfoote was shocked, and she showed it. “It is evident that you do not know England,” she replied, coldly.
“I mean,” he emphasized, “it always seems to me a fine thought that England can never die, because she will live again over there; and then she’ll have another lease of life in Australia; and so on. This England here may die, but the English will go on for ever and ever, it seems to me. And wherever their home may be,” he added, laughing, “they’ll always think it ‘God’s own country,’ and think themselves the chosen people.”
Miss Proudfoote looked anxiously at him, hoping that there was some good in him. “I trust,” she said, “that it is now your intention to settle down?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I fancy my wanderings are over.”
“Heaven has placed you in a very responsible position,” she said, gazing earnestly at him. “I am sure our best wishes will be with you in your duties.”
“Yes, indeed,” sighed the vicar, whose name, as Jim had just ascertained, was Glenning. “Are you a married man, may I ask?”
“Oh no,” Jim replied.
Miss Proudfoote patted his arm. “We shall have to find you a wife,” she smiled.