"I?" she said, lightly. "Oh! I do not think I could resign myself to living anywhere else; though, when you reflect, of course you know that is a national quality. All good Americans adore the city they confer distinction on by living in, and asperse the characters of all other places. Englishmen believe in London, and Frenchmen in Paris; but in America, a New Yorker vaunts himself upon New York, a Bostonian glories in Boston, and a Washingtonian delights in the capital of his country; and so on, until you reach New Orleans."
"That is true enough," said Tredennis, "though I had not thought of it before."
"Oh, it is true," she answered, with an airy laugh. Then she added, with a change of tone, "You have been away for a long time."
"Eight years," he replied.
He thought she gave a slight start, but immediately she turned upon him with one of the brilliant smiles.
"We have had time to grow since then," she said,—"not older, of course, but infinitely wiser—and better."
He did not find it easy to comprehend very clearly either her smile or her manner. He felt that there might be something hidden behind both, though certainly nothing could have been brighter or more inconsequent than her tone. He did not smile, but regarded her for a moment with a look of steady interest, of which he was scarcely conscious. She bore it for an instant, and then turned her eyes carelessly aside, with a laugh.
"I do not think you are changed at all," she said.
"Why?" he asked, still watching her, and trying to adjust himself to her words.
"You looked at me then," she said, "just as you used to when you were with us before, and I said something frivolous. I am afraid I was often frivolous in those days. I confess I suspected myself of it, and one day I even made a resolution"—