"So it was," said the American, "but for æsthetic purposes only. Still, tell me about this Bibury."
"Bibury is a dream," said Ben. "It's all grey stone, and every house looks as if it grew there. But they're beautiful too, and even the tiniest cottages have mullioned windows and delicious gables. The barns are like cathedrals—without," she added hastily, "any vergers—and the cattle-sheds are like cloisters. It's in Gloucestershire. It's miles from a station, and there's a trout stream, and—if you value that, but of course you don't—the people still touch their caps and the little girls curtsy. And when I was there last there certainly weren't any waiters—only nice girls, even if they weren't named Kate and Lucy. But their caps were white. And there are millions of rooks, and if you were very lucky you might see a kingfisher."
"It's too good to be true," said the American. "Show it me in the 'A.B.C.'"
"I can't," said Ben. "It isn't there. You have to go to Cirencester."
"Better and better," said the American. "Places not in the 'A.B.C.' have a special appeal for me. And bury or no bury, I'll go there. Is the food good?"
"Didn't I say it was a fishing inn?" Ben replied.
"Well, young lady," said the American, "you've put me wise to what sounds like a very good thing. Tell me how I pay you."
"I don't think you do," said Ben. "Not this time. You must come again and let me do something more practical for you."
"It's a bet," said the American. "I'm very much obliged to you, young lady. You're the brightest thing I've struck in this country yet. Au revoir! We shall meet again."
On his way through "The Booklovers' Rest" he paused to ask Jack if he knew a place called Bibury.