“But I am comparing Americans with the whole mass of Europeans,” John objected. “The English are a rather silent race, I should say.”
“Cold, you think?” suggested Joe.
“No, not cold. Perhaps less cold than we are; but less demonstrative.”
“I like that,” answered Joe. “I like people to feel more than they show.”
“Why?” asked John. “Why should not people be perfectly natural, and show when they feel anything, or be cold when they do not?” “I think when you know some one feels a great deal and hides it, that gives one the idea of reserved strength.”
They had reached a distant part of the ice, and were slowly skating round the limits of a little bay, where the slanting moonbeams fell through tall old trees upon the glinting black surface. They were quite alone, only in the distance they could hear the long-drawn clang and ring of the other skaters, echoing all along the lake with a tremulous musical sound in the still bright night. “You must be very cold yourself, Mr. Harrington,” Joe began again after a pause, stopping and looking at him.
John laughed a little.
“I?” he cried. “No, indeed, I am the most enthusiastic man alive.”
“You are when you are speaking in public,” said Joe. “But that may be all comedy, you know. Orators always study their speeches, with all the gestures and that, before a glass, don’t they?”
“I do not know,” said John. “Of course I know by heart what I am going to say, when I make a speech like that of the other evening, but I often insert a great deal on the spur of the moment. It is not comedy. I grow very much excited when I am speaking.”