"Butter and eggs, and that sort of thing?"

"We are farmers," she answered, "and we sell butter and eggs"--a pause
--"and that sort of thing."

Yates laughed in his light and cheery way. As he twirled his cane he
looked at his pretty companion. She was gazing anxiously ahead toward a
turn in the road. Her comely face was slightly flushed, doubtless with
the exercise of walking.

"Now, in my country," continued the New Yorker, "we idolize our women.
Pretty girls don't tramp miles to market with butter and eggs."

"Aren't the girls pretty--in your country?"

Yates made a mental note that there was not as much rurality about this
girl as he had thought at first. There was a piquancy about the
conversation which he liked. That she shared his enjoyment was
doubtful, for a slight line of resentment was noticeable on her smooth
brow.

"You bet they're pretty! I think all American girls are pretty. It
seems their birthright. When I say American, I mean the whole
continent, of course. I'm from the States myself--from New York." He
gave an extra twirl to his cane as he said this, and bore himself with
that air of conscious superiority which naturally pertains to a citizen
of the metropolis. "But over in the States we think the men should do
all the work, and that the women should--well, spend the money. I must
do our ladies the justice to say that they attend strictly to their
share of the arrangement."