“Yes, sir!  We’re going all right now, in the old country.  Only have to steer straight, and not put on too much steam.  But give me the new-comers, after all.  They may be close men of business;—­how else could one live?  But when it comes to giving, I’ll back them against the old ones for generosity, or taste either.  They’ve their proper pride, when they get hold of the land; and they like to show it, and quite right they.  You must see my little place too.  It’s not in such bad order, though I say it, and am but a country banker:  but I’ll back my flowers against half the squires round—­my Mary’s, that is—­and my fruit too.—­See, there!  There’s my lord’s new schools, and his model cottages, with more comforts in them, saving the size, than my father’s house had; and there’s his barrack, as he calls it, for the unmarried men—­reading-room, and dining-room, in common; and a library of books, and a sleeping-room for each.”

“It seems strange to complain of prosperity,” said Stangrave; “but I sometimes regret that in America there is so little room for the very highest virtues; all are so well off, that one never needs to give; and what a man does here for others, they do for themselves.”

“So much the better for them.  There are other ways of being generous besides putting your hand in your pocket, sir!  By Jove! there’ll be room enough (if you’ll excuse me) for an American to do fine things, as long as those poor negro slaves—­”

“I know it; I know it,” said Stangrave, in the tone of a man who had already made up his mind on a painful subject, and wished to hear no more of it.  “You will excuse me; but I am come here to learn what I can of England.  Of my own country I know enough, I trust, to do my duty in it when I return.”

Mark was silent, seeing that he had touched a tender place; and pointed out one object of interest after another, as they ran through the flat park, past the great house with its Doric facade, which the eighteenth century had raised above the quiet cell of the Minchampstead recluses.

“It is very ugly,” said Stangrave; and truly.

“Comfortable enough, though; and, as somebody said, people live inside their houses, and not outside ’em.  You should see the pictures there, though, while you’re in the country.  I can show you one or two, too, I hope.  Never grudge money for good pictures.  The pleasantest furniture in the world, as long as you keep them; and if you’re tired of them, always fetch double their price.”

After Minchampstead, the rail leaves the sands and clays, and turns up between the chalk hills, along the barge river which it has rendered useless, save as a supernumerary trout-stream; and then along Whit, now flowing clearer and clearer, as we approach its springs amid the lofty clowns.  On through more water-meadows, and rows of pollard willow, and peat-pits crested with tall golden reeds, and still dykes,—­each in summer a floating flower-bed; while Stangrave looks out of the window, his face lighting up with curiosity.