Lady Alicia has announced, I learn through a Struthers quite pop-eyed with indignation, that it’s Peter and I who possibly ought to be tarred and feathered, if our puritanical community is deciding to go in for that sort of thing! It is to laugh.

Her ladyship, I also learn, has purchased about all the small-arms ammunition in Buckhorn and toted the same back to Casa Grande in her car. There, in unobstructed view of the passers-by, she has set up a target, on which, by the hour together, she coolly and patiently practises sharpshooting with both rifle and revolver.

I admire that woman’s spunk. And whatever you may do, you can’t succeed in bullying the English. They have too much of the bull-dog breed in their bones. They’re always at their best, Peter declares, when they’re fighting. “But from an Englishwoman trying to be kittenish,” he fervently added, “good Lord, deliver us all!”

And that started us talking about the English. Peter, of course, is too tolerant to despise his cousins across the Pond, but he pregnantly reminded me that Lady Allie had asked him what sort of town Saskatchewan was and he had retorted by inquiring if she was fond of Yonkers, whereupon she’d looked puzzled and acknowledged that she’d never eaten one. For Peter and Lady Allie, it seems, had had a set-to about American map-names, which her ladyship had described as both silly and unsayable, especially the Indian ones, while Peter had grimly proclaimed that any people who called Seven-Oaks Snooks and Belvoir Beever and Ruthven Rivven and Wrottesley Roxly and Marylebone Marrabun and Wrensfordsley Wrensley had no right to kick about American pronunciations.

But Peter is stimulating, even though he does stimulate you into opposition. So I found myself defending the English, and especially the Englishman, for too many of them had made me happy in their lovely old homes and too many of their sons, Æons and Æons ago, had tried to hold my hand.

“Your Englishman,” I proclaimed to Peter, “always acts as though he quite disapproves of you and yet he’ll go to any amount of trouble to do things to make you happy or comfortable. Then he conceals his graciousness by being curt about it. Then, when he’s at his crankiest, he’s apt to startle you by saying the divinest things point-blank in your face, and as likely as not, after treating you as he would a rather backward child of whom he rigidly disapproves, he’ll make love to you and do it with a fine old Anglo-Saxon directness. He hates swank, of course, for he’s a truffle-hound who prefers digging out his own delicacies. And it’s ten to one, if a woman simply sits tight and listens close and says nothing, that he’ll say something about her unrivaled powers of conversation!”