"You talked to John—Mr. Trenchard—last night," she said.
"Yes," I said, smiling into her eyes.
"I know—all night—he told me. He's splendid, isn't he? Splendid!"
"I like him very much," I answered.
"Ah! you must! you must! You must all like him! You don't know—his thoughts, his ideals—they are wonderful. He's like some knight of the Middle Ages.... Ah, but you'll think that silly, Mr. Durward. You're a practical Englishman. I hate practical Englishmen."
"Thank you," I said, laughing.
"No, but I do. You sneer at everything beautiful. Here in Russia we're more simple. And John's very like a Russian in many ways. Don't you think he is?"
"I haven't known him long enough—" I began.
"Ah, you don't like him! I see you don't.... No, it's no use your saying anything. He isn't English enough for you, that's what it is. You think him unpractical, unworldly. Well, so he is. Do you think I'd ever be engaged to an ordinary Englishman? I'd die of ennui in a week. Oh! yes, I would. But you like John, really, don't you?"
"I tell you that I do," I answered, "but really, after only two days—"