Mr. Britling Sees It Through Read Online Free PDF Page B

altogether, and I’ve not got her up yet to forty miles. Which I’m told she ought to do easily. We’ll consider that settled.”
    For the moment Mr. Direck couldn’t think of any further excuse. But it was very clear in his mind that something must happen; he wished he knew of somebody who could send a recall telegram from London, to prevent him committing himself to the casual destinies of Mr. Britling’s car again. And then another interest became uppermost in his mind.
    â€œYou’d hardly believe me,” he said, “if I told you that that Miss Corner of yours has a quite extraordinary resemblance to a miniature I’ve got away there in America of a cousin of my maternal grandmother’s. She seems a very pleasant young lady.”
    But Mr. Britling supplied no further information about Miss Corner.
    â€œIt must be very interesting,” he said, “to come over here and pick up these American families of yours on the monuments and tombstones. You know, of course, that district south of Evesham where every church monument bears the stars and stripes, the arms of departed Washingtons. I doubt though if you’d stillfind the name about there. Nor will you find many Hinkinsons in Market Saffron. But lots of this country here has five or six hundred-year-old families still flourishing. That’s why Essex is so much more genuinely Old England than Surrey, say, or Kent. Round here you’ll find Corners and Fairlies, and then you get Capels, and then away down towards Dunmow and Braintree Maynards and Byngs. And there are oaks and hornbeams in the park about Claverings that have echoed to the howling of wolves and the clank of men in armour. All the old farms here are moated—because of the wolves. Claverings itself is Tudor, and rather fine too. And the cottages still wear thatch. …”
    He reflected. “Now if you went south of London instead of northward it’s all different. You’re in a different period, a different society. You’re in London suburbs right down to the sea. You’ll find no genuine estates left, not of our deep-rooted familiar sort. You’ll find millionaires and that sort of people, sitting in the old places. Surrey is full of rich stockbrokers, company-promoters, bookies, judges, newspaper proprietors. Sort of people who fence the paths across their parks. They do something to the old places—I don’t know what they do—but instantly the countryside becomes a villadom. And little sub-estates and red-brick villas and art cottages spring up. And a kind of new, hard neatness. And pneumatic tire and automobile spirit advertisements, great glaring boards by the roadside. And all the poor people are inspected and rushed about until they forget who their grandfathers were. They become villa parasites and odd-job men, and grow basely rich and buy gramophones. This Essex and yonder Surrey are as different as Russia and Germany. But for one American who comes to look at Essex, twenty go to Godalming and Guildford and Dorking and Lewes and Canterbury. Those Surrey people are not properly Englishat all. They are strenuous. You have to get on or get out. They drill their gardeners, lecture very fast on agricultural efficiency, and have miniature rifle-ranges in every village. It’s a county of new notice-boards and barbed-wire fences; there’s always a policeman round the corner. They dress for dinner. They dress for everything. If a man gets up in the night to look for a burglar he puts on the correct costume—or doesn’t go. They’ve got a special scientific system for urging on their tramps. And they lock up their churches on a week-day. Half their soil is hard chalk or a rationalistic sand, only suitable for bunkers and villa foundations. And they play golf in a large, expensive, thorough way because it’s the thing to do. … Now here in Essex we’re as lax as the eighteenth century. We