The Baron, egged on by his friend's high spirits and his own imagination to anticipate pleasure upon pleasure, watched with rapture the summer landscape whiz past the windows.

Through the flat midlands of England they sped; field after field, hedgerow after hedgerow, trees by the dozen, by the hundred, by the thousand, spinning by in one continuous green vista.

Red brick towns, sluggish rivers, thatched villages and ancient churches dark with yews, the shining web of junctions, and a whisking glimpse of wayside stations leaped towards them, past them, and leagues away behind.

But swiftly as they sped, it was all too slowly for the fresh-created Lord Tulliwuddle.
"Are we not nearly to Scotland yet ?" he inquired some fifty times.
"'My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the dears!'" hummed the abdicated nobleman, whose hilarity had actually increased (if that were possible) since his descent into the herd again.
All the travellers' familiar landmarks were hailed by the gleeful diplomatist with encouraging comments.
"Ach, look! Beauteeful view! How quickly it is gone! Hurray! Ve must be nearly to Scotland." A panegyric on the rough sky-line of the north country fells was interrupted by the entrance of the dining-car attendant.

Learning that they would dine, he politely inquired in what names he should engage their seats.