a car. Presently he came back
with a smart grey thing which matched my clothes; and not only was
there a grey chauffeur to go with it, but a grey holland coat for me,
and a grey silk hood with a lace curtain. I do think they do things
well in America.

Mr. Brett wanted to know if I would like a short run about Cleveland
before starting, so I said yes, as I love seeing new things; and it was
beautiful. I don't remember learning Cleveland on the map of the States
when I did geography, so I hadn't realised that it could be important.
But Bournemouth and Folkeston and Harrogate rolled into one wouldn't
fill it, and Cleveland is a great deal grander than any of them. Even
Bellevue Avenue in Newport is hardly handsomer than Euclid; but what an
odd name to give a street! But to me the names of streets in America
don't sound as interesting and individual as ours do.

I looked forward to seeing the country between Cleveland and Aristo
(which is the name of the town nearest to the Valley Farm) because
except for the drives I had had near Newport, I knew nothing at all of
the real country in America. I had an idea that we should pass some
fine country houses and see a number of pretty little nestling
villages.

The name of Aristo was rather impressive and classical sounding, I
thought, and I had visions of meeting on the way pretty girls driving
or riding, and good-looking, well-groomed men such as I had met always
in the country round Newport. But as we went on and on, I was
disappointed. The scenery itself was lovely, rich, and peaceful, with
groves of maple trees which would have been quite new to me if I hadn't
seen a few in the East; but the villages were blots rather than beauty
spots, and we saw only peasants and farm people.

Mr. Brett was driving the car with me beside him, while the chauffeur
sat behind, and I made some such remark to him before I stopped to
remember that his relatives were farm people. I could have bitten my
tongue then, but he didn't seem to be offended.

"Outside the towns in the West there are few of what _you_ would call
gentlefolk," said he, with just the faintest emphasis of good-natured
scorn for English prejudice; "nor are there any 'country houses' as you
understand the name in England. Here people live in the country to till
the land and to live by tilling it; yet they don't call themselves
'peasants,' either. It isn't that they're snobbish and want to seem to
be what they are not, don't