"Well, I prefer the coast myself."
"The dear white coast," says Letitia, slyly.
"The dear red coast!" I cry in triumph, but they only sigh:
"Ah, it was a wonderful, wonderful journey! One could never imagine it—or even tell it. One must have been there."
It was a wonderful journey, I then admit, and I do not blame them for their pridefulness, but what, I ask, would they have done without my map?
I am bound by honesty to confess, however, that fair as my Devon is with the vales and moorlands I have never seen, Letitia's Devon must be fairer. She found it lovelier far than she had thought, she tells me, and she smiles so happily at the mere sound of its magic name—what, I ask, must a shire be made of to stand the test of that woman's dreams?
"Here we have hills," I tell her.
"But not those hills, Bertram."
"Have we not Sun Dial?" I protest.
"Yes, we have Sun Dial," she admits.