“Not very west?”
“I mean not from the Far West,” Dan explained. “Out there they’d call me an Easterner, of course.”
“Gracious!” she cried incredulously. “Would they, really?”
Already he thought her a wonderful being, but at this he showed some spirit. “I’m afraid so,” he said.
She laughed, not offended, and exclaimed: “Oh, so you don’t mind being a Westerner! I only meant you people are so funny about rubbing in the letter R and overdoing the short A that no one can ever make a mistake about which of the provinces you belong in. I’ve been in the West, myself—rather west, that is. I didn’t care for it much.”
“Where was it?”
“Rochester. I believe you’re from farther out, aren’t you? Perhaps you can tell me if it’s true, what we hear things are like beyond Rochester.”
“Things beyond Rochester?” he asked, mystified. “What sort of things do you mean?”
“All sorts,” she answered. “I’ve always heard that when you get west of Rochester every house has a room you people call a ‘sitting-room’, and you always keep a sewing-machine in it and apples on a centre table, and all the men keep tobacco in their cheeks and say, ‘Wa’al, no, ma’am,’ and ‘Why, certainly, ma’am,’ and ‘Yes, ma’am!’ Isn’t that what it’s like?”
“Who told you so?”