“I understand you’ve been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?”
“Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary,” she laughs, adding—
“And how do you like our Wye?”
“Who could help liking it?”
“There’s been much said of its scenery—in books and newspapers. You really admire it?”
“I do, indeed.” His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. “I think it the finest in the world.”
“What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?”
“Really—truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?”
“Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything—”