Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" is attributed to Americans, and several American artists of note--among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of Pershore--have been included in the foreign contingent. Its name is derived from the broad London and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping curve between rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean houses with many fanciful gables and massive stone chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of great importance and then were built the fine inns and business houses. A period of decadence followed, during which it gradually sank into a neglected country village, from which oblivion the old-world charm of its very decay finally rescued it. It shows quite markedly the influx of outsiders and the trail of the tourist; in this regard it is inferior to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of Chipping Campden. But while there is a touch of newness in the outskirts and while the antique buildings show traces of returning prosperity, there is still much in Broadway to please the eye and delight the artistic sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns have the charm of the Lygon Arms, where we paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea--so far have the customs of the land of our sojourn corrupted us!) It is a many-gabled building of soft sandstone, rich with browns verging into reds and dashed here and there with masses of ivy which half hide the deep-set stone-mullioned windows. To the rear its glass-roofed garage with cement floor and modern accessories tells plainly of one source of returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is cleanliness, and the charm of the antique is combined with modern comfort. The interior is quite as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be more redolent of old-time England than the immense fireplace in the ingle nook of the hall. Here, too, linger legends of King Charles, and there is one great paneled room with huge fireplace and Tudor furniture that claims the honor of association with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the necessity that often forced us to hasten by places like the Lygon Arms--but one could scarce exhaust Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as long and as often as he might wish. [Illustration: LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY.] Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering twilight. We reached Tewkesbury at nightfall, but its inns did not strike our fancy, and we hastened to Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later visit. At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found things much more to our liking.