Holdsworth laughed, but made no answer. “They say that Australia is a wonderful country, sir: that you grow cherries with the stones outside, and that your parrots are like sea-gulls. Fine climate though, I believe, sir, if you will pardon me?” “Very fine.” “And yet not equal to ours?” “Perhaps not.” “They talk of scenery, sir. Now I was never out of England in my life, though there’s not a hole or corner in it that I don’t know. But what can equal English scenery? Take Devonshire. Take Cumberland. Were you ever in those counties?” “Never.” “Yorkshire?” “No.” “Talk of desolation--see the moors: great plains of the colour of tripe stretching for miles, with one dwarf tree for every league of ground, and that’s all. Now, sir, my taste may be wrong, or perhaps it’s right; I wouldn’t flaunt it in any man’s face, though I’d hold on to it if I was on my death-bed. Of all the counties in England, which think you I’m the most partial to?” “I cannot imagine.” “Kent, sir!” exclaimed the man, drawing back triumphantly. The name sent a thrill through Holdsworth. He pricked his ears and looked at his companion earnestly. “The Devonshire people may crack up their county, but give _me_ Kent. I am a native of Kent, sir!” “Indeed!” “I was born at Canterbury. Ever seen the cathedral?” “Canterbury Cathedral!” muttered Holdsworth, struggling to grasp an illusive, half-formed fancy that flitted across his mind. “Take the country about Hanwitch, now ...” “Hanwitch!” echoed Holdsworth. The name pierced him as a sword might. He pressed his fingers tightly over his eyes, his face turned white, and his whole body trembled. His companion stared at him. “Do you know Hanwitch?” he asked, wondering if this singular-looking person with the haggard face, Australian clothes, and thick beard was in possession of his right mind. “The name struck me,” answered Holdsworth, removing his hands and frowning in his effort to master the meaning of the extraordinary emotion excited by the name of that town. “There’s not a spot of land anywhere within thirty miles of Canterbury all round,” continued the man, looking at Holdsworth watchfully, “that I don’t know. I name Hanwitch because there’s a bit of river scenery near it which is prettier than anything I’ve seen in any other part of England. If you’ve got the leisure, and would like to see what this country can show in the way of good views, take a run down to Hanwitch.” He pulled out a pocket-book, and extracting a card, handed it to Holdsworth, observing in a tone that at least showed he had regained his confidence in his neighbour: “Show that, sir, at the bar of the ‘Three Stars’ at Hanwitch, and if you don’t get every attention, be good enough to write to me, and see if they don’t lose my patronage.”