Whereat Piers laughed and went his way.
He was curiously light-hearted again that morning. The soft Southern air with its many perfumes exhilarated him like wine. The scent of the orange-groves rose as incense to the sun.
The animal he rode danced a skittish side-step from time to time. It was impossible to go with sober mien.
"It's a good land," said Crowther.
"Flowing with milk and honey," laughed Piers, with his eyes on the olive-clothed slopes. "But there's no country like one's own, what?"
"No country like England, you mean," said Crowther.
"Of course I do, but I was too polite to say so."
"You needn't be polite to me," said Crowther with his slow smile. "And England happens to be my country. I am as British—" he glanced at Piers' dark face—"perhaps even a little more so—than you are."
"I plead guilty to an Italian grandmother," said Piers. "But you—I thought you were Colonial."
"I am British born and bred," said Crowther.