“All the same, you are American straight into your marrow, and I feel surer and surer, the more I see of English people—and I have had two seasons and one autumn in England—that there are no two peoples on the earth so unlike.”
“Well. I think it’s very strange,” said Lee crossly. “I don’t understand it at all.”
“We are not even like the Americans of a quarter of a century ago. Why should we expect to be like our ancestors of several centuries back?”
“Oh, true, I suppose. And Cecil! If he’s anything like his letters he’s certainly not much like Randolph and Tom. But I had an idea he was going through a sort of freak stage, and would be just like other men (only nicer) when he got over it.”
“There are, doubtless, hundreds like him; and I wish you would not use slang, dear.”
“Well, I won’t. What is your Arthur?”
“A baron—nothing so very wonderful; but he has a very long descent: I looked it out in Burke. And at least I am not buying him. He knows that I have very little. I believe he is wealthy. He’s thirty-six; a very good age. I do hate boys.”
“Is he frightfully in love?”
Tiny nodded and blushed. “When an Englishman falls in love—well!”
Lee jerked her knees up to her chin and gave a gurgle of delight. “Are you in love with him?” she asked softly. “Do tell me, Tiny?”