While these thoughts were running tumultuously through his mind Mrs. Spaulding, the embodiment, he felt, of the spirit of his newer existence, looked wonderingly out over her pearl-gray boa at him and waited for him to speak. He had taken it all very quietly. She did not know whether to be pleased or annoyed; Cordelia had accustomed her to gratitude in its more demonstrative form. She had expected, perhaps, a little more effusion on the part of her new protégé. He, on his part, did not see that more remained to be said.
Mrs. Spaulding continued to look at him with musing eyes. He had always seemed to her to have the manners of another century. There were times when his stiffness irritated her.
"Are all Englishmen alike?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Because sometimes I feel that I'd like to give you a good shaking, just to joggle you out of your shell for a few minutes."
He laughed. "I only wish you would."
"Really? Then why do you let so many good times crawl under your Juggernaut of solemnity?"
"Because the Vishnu of the land of the glassy stare demands it, I suppose. I'm not altogether Americanized yet." And again he laughed.
"Does that mean you're saying anything against my country?" demanded Mrs. Spaulding.
"On the contrary, that I am looking to your country for my reformation. I'd really like to be shaken out of that shell you speak of."