“It was only to about a dozen houses—those, I agree, always the same; people, moreover, you had already met in London. You’ve got no general impressions.”
She raised her beautiful blank face. “That’s just what I have got; I had them before I came. I see no difference whatever. They’ve just the same names—just the same manners.”
Again for an instant Jackson hung fire; then he said with that practised flat candour of which mention has already been made and which he sometimes used in London during his courtship: “Don’t you like it over here?”
Lady Barb had returned to her book, but she looked up again. “Did you expect me to like it?”
“I hoped you would, of course. I think I told you so.”
“I don’t remember. You said very little about it; you seemed to make a kind of mystery. I knew of course you expected me to live here, but I didn’t know you expected me to like it.”
“You thought I asked of you the sacrifice, as it were.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lady Barb. She got up from her chair and tossed her unconsolatory volume into the empty seat. “I recommend you to read that book,” she added.
“Is it interesting?”
“It’s an American novel.”