"Yes. I used to think that all Englishmen were cold-mannered creatures and quite indifferent to their wives, as fiction has it. I've undergone a metamorphosis."
He continued to smile as he packed his pipe.
"Are you accusing us as a nation of polygamous practices?" he asked.
She made a grimace. "Please don't try to be clever or you'll spoil my opinion—and you know countries are judged by single representatives. I warn you that I'm in a desperately serious mood, despite all indications. As proof, I've been wondering if too much travel, too long a sojourn in foreign lands, doesn't affect one's ideas and philosophies—in other words, intoxicate one and leave a craving for the wine of exotic environment."
He contemplated the possibility that her remark was intended as personal; dismissed it; waited for her to continue. Which she did.
"Since you won't be human and ask why I think that, you force me to confess that I'm leading up to a—a personal example."
"Namely?"
"Well—yourself."
Another smile; he lighted his pipe. "Go on."
"Really, would you be satisfied in a prosaic English or American city—after—all this?"—with a vague gesture.