summer
bride. I always pretend to myself when I read Mrs. Cutting's stories
about those dear, human young married couples or engaged girls and boys
of hers, that they live in New Rochelle, outside the "smart" circle
which only the most ambitious ones can ever hope to enter.

We loved coming on to the old Post Road between Boston and New York, but
I've told you already how Jack and I feel about Post Roads, and wouldn't
dream of writing the words without capitals. It may be conceited (or
isn't it conceit to boast of one's husband?), but I don't believe most
of the automobilious travellers we met, evidently native-grown
Americans, knew or cared half as much about the history of every mile as
did my English Jack. You can guess pretty well by people's faces whether
they're saying to themselves, "How long will it take me to _get_ there?"
or "This used to be an Indian trail before it was a Post Road"; or "Paul
Revere rode this way"; or "Fenimore Cooper once lived at Heathcote Hill
and wrote 'The Spy'" (delicious book!); "Here, close by Mamaroneck, is a
chimney of the old house where the hero of the story was hidden; here at
Christchurch, in charming little Rye, Fenimore Cooper's eyes have gazed
on the silver chalice presented by Queen Anne." Fancy the difference
travelling with a person whose visage expresses that wild, road-pig
desire to get on at any price, and one like Jack, who has the "I want to
see and know all that's beautiful" face!

Talking of faces, I wish you could see Ed Caspian's when he motors. He's
so anxious to look as if he had done it all before, in a better car if
possible, that he's like an image of Buddha reflected in a convex
mirror. His cap is quite wrong, too. He thinks it's heather mixture, but
it's the purple of a bruise. Peter's is exactly right. As for
Pat's--well, a girl's hat should be her crowning glory, shouldn't it?
Hers is; and it is becoming to Pat to be sad and puzzled about life. But
all this is an "aside." I, too, must "get on!" And to get on, we go
through Portchester, which is like melting a map of Poland and a map of
Italy, and mixing them together, because there are so many Poles and
Italians there. We came to Portchester along a lovely, shady road, and
it's really an old place, though it looks new. We had a river to cross
named after an Indian village jokingly called "Bay Rum," but they've
decorously altered it to Byram; and on its other side we were in
Connecticut, which Jack pronou