"They would," said Elizabeth, and she laughed too. "They 'fasten' their windows, or do something feeble like that. We're being very rude, Arthur; stand up for your country."
"I only wish to remark that you Scots settle down very comfortably among us alien English. Perhaps getting all the best jobs consoles you for your absence from Scotland."
"Not a bit of it," Elizabeth assured him. "We're home-sick all the time: 'My feet they traivel England, but I'm deein' for the North.' But I'm afraid Mr. Stevenson will look on me coldly when I confess to a great affection for England. Leafy Warwick lanes, lush meadowlands, the lilied reaches of the Cherwell: I love the mellow beauty of it all. It's not my land, not my wet moorlands and wind-swept hills, but I'm bound to admit that it is a good land."
"Yes," said Mr. Stevenson, "England's a beautiful rich country, but——"
"But," Elizabeth finished for him, "it's just the 'wearifu' South' to you?"
"That's so."
"You see," said Elizabeth, nodding at Arthur Townshend; "we're hopeless."
"Do you know what you remind me of?" he asked.
"Something disgusting, I can guess by your face."
"You remind me of a St. Andrew's Day dinner somewhere in the Colonies.... By the way, where's Buff?"