In America, it must be explained, Mr. Direck spoke a very good and careful English indeed, but he now found the utmost difficulty in controlling his impulse to use a high-pitched nasal drone and indulge in dry “Americanisms” and poker metaphors upon all occasions.  When people asked him questions he wanted to say “Yep” or “Sure,” words he would no more have used in America than he could have used a bowie knife.  But he had a sense of role.  He wanted to be visibly and audibly America eye-witnessing.  He wanted to be just exactly what he supposed an Englishman would expect him to be.  At any rate, his clothes had been made by a strongly American New York tailor, and upon the strength of them a taxi-man had assumed politely but firmly that the shillings on his taximeter were dollars, an incident that helped greatly to sustain the effect of Mr. Direck, in Mr. Direck’s mind, as something standing out with an almost representative clearness against the English scene....  So much so that the taxi-man got the dollars....

Because all the time he had been coming over he had dreaded that it wasn’t true, that England was a legend, that London would turn out to be just another thundering great New York, and the English exactly like New Englanders....

Section 2

And now here he was on the branch line of the little old Great Eastern Railway, on his way to Matching’s Easy in Essex, and he was suddenly in the heart of Washington Irving’s England.

Washington Irving’s England!  Indeed it was.  He couldn’t sit still and just peep at it, he had to stand up in the little compartment and stick his large, firm-featured, kindly countenance out of the window as if he greeted it.  The country under the June sunshine was neat and bright as an old-world garden, with little fields of corn surrounded by dog-rose hedges, and woods and small rushy pastures of an infinite tidiness.  He had seen a real deer park, it had rather tumbledown iron gates between its shield-surmounted pillars, and in the distance, beyond all question, was Bracebridge Hall nestling among great trees.  He had seen thatched and timbered cottages, and half-a-dozen inns with creaking signs.  He had seen a fat vicar driving himself along a grassy lane in a governess cart drawn by a fat grey pony.  It wasn’t like any reality he had ever known.  It was like travelling in literature.

Mr. Britling’s address was the Dower House, and it was, Mr. Britling’s note had explained, on the farther edge of the park at Claverings.  Claverings!  The very name for some stately home of England....