Again a moment’s hesitation.
“Fairly well, only ... Very tired.”
“I don’t wonder she is tired; she does so much. Always rushing about after something new. They seem very restless people in America.”
“They’re alive, anyway; they don’t rust! They’re bound to get the most that’s possible out of life, and they get it! It shakes a fellow up to get out of the rut here and have a taste of their methods.”
“You like it—better than home?” Pixie paused, teapot in hand, to cast upon him a glance full of patriotic reproach, whereat he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“Isn’t home the place where one settles down, and which feels to be most congenial?”
“You find America more congenial than England?”
He shrugged again, and the old gleam of laughter showed in his eyes.
“Now look here, isn’t it bad luck to begin asking embarrassing questions straight away off? I hoped I was going to avoid this point! If you must have the truth—I do! America suits me!”—his smile was full of complacence—“I suit America. That’s not by any means a sure thing. Many Englishmen throw up the sponge and return home. They can’t adapt themselves, don’t want to adapt themselves. In my case I had had no business experience in England, so I began with an open mind without prejudice, and—it went: I like the life, I like the people. I like the climate. The climate is answerable for a lot of the extra energy which you over here call ‘restlessness.’ You want to do just about twice as much beneath those skies!” He cast an impatient glance towards the window. “It’s all so grey! ... I’ve had a headache straight on the last two days.”
“Tea’s ready now; it will do you good. There are hot scones in that dish,” Pixie said quietly. The greyness of the street seemed to have entered the room—to have entered her heart. It was all grey. ... “We knew, of course, that you must like it, when you stayed so long.”