“They talk of scenery, sir. Now I was never out of England in my life, though there’s not a hole or corner in it that I don’t know. But what can equal English scenery? Take Devonshire. Take Cumberland. Were you ever in those counties?”
“Never.”
“Yorkshire?”
“No.”
“Talk of desolation—see the moors: great plains of the colour of tripe stretching for miles, with one dwarf tree for every league of ground, and that’s all. Now, sir, my taste may be wrong, or perhaps it’s right; I wouldn’t flaunt it in any man’s face, though I’d hold on to it if I was on my death-bed. Of all the counties in England, which think you I’m the most partial to?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“Kent, sir!” exclaimed the man, drawing back triumphantly.
The name sent a thrill through Holdsworth. He pricked his ears and looked at his companion earnestly.
“The Devonshire people may crack up their county, but give me Kent. I am a native of Kent, sir!”