Captain Paul, as I have said, was a man of moods, and strangely affected by ridicule.  And this we had in plenty upon the road.  Landlords, grooms, and’ostlers, and even our own post-boys, laughed and jested coarsely at his sky-blue frock, and their sallies angered him beyond all reason, while they afforded me so great an amusement that more than once I was on the edge of a serious falling-out with him as a consequence of my merriment.  Usually, when we alighted from our vehicle, the expression of mine host would sour, and his sir would shift to a master; while his servants would go trooping in again, with many a coarse fling that they would get no vails from such as we.  And once we were invited into the kitchen.  He would be soar for half a day at a spell after a piece of insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn lecture upon the advantages of birth in a manor.  Then his natural buoyancy would lift him again, and he would be in childish ecstasies at the prospect of getting to London, and seeing the great world; and I began to think that he secretly cherished the hope of meeting some of its votaries.  For I had told him, casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington Street, where I remembered the Manners were established.

“Arlington Street!” he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue; “it has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound.  That street must be the very acme of fashion.”

I laughed, and replied that I did not know.  And at the ordinary of the next inn we came to, he took occasion to mention to me, in a louder voice than was necessary, that I would do well to call in Arlington Street as we went into town.  So far as I could see, the remark did not compel any increase of respect from our fellow-diners.

Upon more than one point I was worried.  Often and often I reflected that some hitch might occur to prevent my getting money promptly from Mr. Dix.  Days would perchance elapse before I could find the man in such a great city as London; he might be out of town at this season, Easter being less than a se’nnight away.  For I had heard my grandfather say that the elder Mr. Dix had a house in some merchant’s suburb, and loved to play at being a squire before he died.  Again (my heart stood at the thought), the Manners might be gone back to America.  I cursed the stubborn pride which had led the captain to hire a post-chaise, when the wagon had served us so much better, and besides relieved him of the fusillade of ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman.  But such reflections always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming him whose generosity had rescued me from perhaps a life-long misery.

But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, between high walls and hedges, past trim gardens and fields and meadows, and I marvelled at the regular, park-like look of the country, as though stamped from one design continually recurring, like our butter at Carvel Hall.  The roads were sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonial byway in winter, with mud up to the axles.  And yet, my heart went out to this country, the home of my ancestors.  Spring was at hand; the ploughboys whistled between the furrows, the larks circled overhead, and the lilacs were cautiously pushing forth their noses.  The air was heavy with the perfume of living things.