“I never heard that there was,” said Cheriton, with an air of pained surprise. “And that is a matter upon which I am hardly open to conviction. By the way, Lascelles, which of England’s luscious pastures had the glory of giving birth to your genius?”
As a preliminary measure Jim Lascelles showed Miss Perry his boot.
“I was born,” said Jim, modestly, yet observing that the blue eyes of Miss Perry were adequately fixed on his boot, “at a little place called Widdiford, in the north of Devon.”
“Yes, of course,” said Cheriton, graciously; “I ought to have remembered, as your father and I were at school together. I remember distinctly that it was the opinion of the fourth form common room that the finest clotted cream and the finest strawberry jam in the world came from Widdiford.”
“It is almost as nice at Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, in spite of the covert threat that was still lurking in Jim’s outstretched boot.
“Quite so,” said Cheriton. “Ha, happy halcyon days of youth, when the cream was really clotted and the strawberries were really ripe! But I seem to remember that Widdiford is remarkable for something else.”
Miss Perry was prepared to enlighten Lord Cheriton, but Jim’s boot rose ferociously.
“Stick paw in Mouth Piece,” Jim whispered truculently, “and merely think of cream buns.”
“Widdiford,” said Cheriton, “let me see. In what connection have I heard that charmingly poetic name? Ah, to be sure, I remember—Widdiford is the place at which they have not quite got the railway, don’t you know. Miss Araminta, is not that the case?”
“Yes,” said Miss Perry; “but it is only three miles away.”