To his surprise she looked up at him with a bright smile, a smile of pleasure, and—of something else.
“On the contrary, I do take it as a compliment, as a very distinct compliment,” she said, “considering whom it comes from. Though, after all, it is scarcely I that should accept it. The—the circumstances of my life may have made me different—my having been so little in town, for instance. I suppose there are some advantages in everything, even in apparent disadvantages.”
Her extreme gentleness and deference put him at his ease again.
“Oh, certainly,” he said. “For my part, I often wish I had never been anywhere or seen anything! Life would, in such a case, seem so much more interesting. There would be still things left to dream about.”
He sighed, and there was something genuine in his sigh. “I envy people who have never travelled, sometimes,” he added.
“Have you travelled much?” she asked.
“Oh, dear, yes—been everywhere—the usual round.”
“But the usual round is just what with me counts for nothing,” she said sharply. “Real travelling means living in other countries, leading the life of their peoples, not rushing round the capitals of Europe from one cosmopolitan hotel to another.”
He smiled a superior smile. “When you have rushed round the capitals of Europe you may give an opinion,” his smile seemed to say.
“That sort of thing is impossible, except for Bohemians,” he said languidly. “I detest talking about travels.”