"We have winds," I say, "and singing waters, in Grassy Fordshire."
She shakes her head.
"You never heard the Dart or Tamar or the Tavy. You never stood on the abbey bridge."
"And where," I ask, "was that?"
"That was at Tavistock," she replies, "at dear little Tavistock after a rain, with the brown water rushing through the arches where the moss and fern and ivy clings—rushing over bowlders and swirling and foaming and falling beyond over a weir; then racing away under elm-trees and out into meadows—oh, you never heard the Tavy, Bertram."
"We have Troublesome," I insist.
"Yes," she replies, but her mind is absent. "We have Troublesome, to be sure."
Then I rouse myself. I fairly menace her with her treason.
"Surely," I cry, "you do not prefer old Devon to Grassy Fordshire!"