to replenish my luncheon basket that morning. The first inn I saw looked clean and unpretending, so inviting, and there I obtained some bread and cheese and ale, as that could be had at once for the asking; moreover, it was nicely served in a cheerful little room, and a neat, be-ribboned maid waited quietly on me. I noted that the walls of the room were covered with grey canvas and not with paper; now canvas, after wood panelling and lordly tapestry, is the most artistic wall-covering imaginable. I never expected to find such a thing at a small country inn, where I am content with comfort and never look for the luxury of art. The landlord, anxious to be obliging, apologised that there was no cold meat, but, said he, I could have chops, only they would have to send for them. Fancy a famishing man waiting for the purchase and the cooking of chops; then possibly the chops might prove tough. Bread and cheese and ale, I explained, were good enough for me, and they could be had instanter. Now hunger is the best of sauces, and no meal ever I had did I relish more than my modest one that day. The table was spread with the whitest of cloths, flowers in a vase adorned it, and there is much in the manner a meal is served; the bread was crusty and the crust was crisp, the cheese excellent of flavour, the clear, nut-brown, frothing ale was, as Shakespeare puts it, "a dish for a king." Honestly, just then, I would not have exchanged the simple repast I had in that inn's tiny parlour for the most sumptuous lunch at the most expensive restaurant; and the civility and attention of the maid were more to my liking than the servile service of any black-coated waiter, with a tip in view according to his servility. Then my enjoyable lunch cost me exactly one shilling; no charge was made for stabling my car, and the attentive maid received my modest gratuity with such smiling thanks as though she expected no such thing. Even the landlord thanked me for my poor custom. Wherein lies the charm of these unprogressive little country towns, whilst modern cities, though they may be fine, are generally so uninteresting, is as difficult to explain as the attraction of personality or character. It is not in architectural merit, for they rarely have that, except perhaps in an odd building or two. One thing is, their buildings are low, and so their streets are sunny, which gives them an air of cheerfulness. But I think their real charm lies in their naturalness and welcome absence of all show, assertiveness, or pretence, and this causes a feeling of restfulness, for the eye is not called upon to admire anything; also they have a delightfully finished look--where the town ends there the country begins. The prosperous modern town never seems finished, and as it grows, it grows the more ugly.