"What a wonderful nation of young men is[88] yours, Mr. Smith! What qualities! What fearlessness—initiative—idealism—daring—! What invention, what recklessness, what romance——"
Her voice failed her; she sat with lips parted, a soft glow in her cheeks, gazing upon Smith with fascinated eyes. And Smith gazed back at her without a word.
"I don't believe," she said, "that in all England there exists a single man capable even of conceiving the career for which so many young Americans seem to be equipped."
After a moment Smith said very quietly:
"I am sorry, but do you know I don't quite understand you?"
"I mean," she said, "that you Americans have a capacity for conceiving, understanding, and performing everything you write about."
"Why do you think so?" asked Smith, a trifle red.
"Because if Englishmen could understand and do such things, our novelists would write about them. They never write about them. But you Americans do. You write thousands of most delightful novels about young men who do things unheard of, undreamed of, in England. Therefore, it is very clear to me that you Americans are quite capable of doing what you write[89] about, and what your readers so ardently admire."
"I see," said Smith calmly. His ear-tips still burned.
"No doubt," said the girl, "many of the astonishing things you Americans write about are really done. Many astounding episodes in fiction are of not uncommon occurrence in real life."