“Paul,” his sister asked him, “how do you like America?”
“America?” he repeated, and, although he said no more, she knew by his quizzical drawl what he meant.
“Well, Slocum, then, and the old place?”
“Immensely!”
“Absurd,” she laughed. “You have only been here a week, and except for ridiculously caddying a couple of times for John at the Golf Club, you have not been out of the house.”
“In which case, how could I fail to like it?” he said, with mock politeness. “You’ve kept me company! You don’t seem to be tempted to explore the old scenes any more than I do! Perhaps, like me, you’re afraid of the shock. You know how luxurious I am. If it were not for the extremely swell gentleman and lady servants, I should feel very much at ease.” He had not put down his book; he still smoked and appeared to be reading what he said from it. “I was most amused the other day as I stood on the piazza; did John tell you? I saw going around the road two very attractive-looking girls—they recalled the Gibson pictures as much as anything else. They wore, of course, short skirts and those bodices that you see everywhere. They had a bicycle, each of them, and they were walking along, their arms around each other’s waists. I said to John: ‘By Jove, what a stunning pair of girls! I should like to know them.’ And he said: ‘They are living in the same house with you, my dear fellow—they are my cook and my laundress.’”
Mrs. Bellamy laughed appreciatively. “Tell me, Paul, how does America strike you?”
McAllister reluctantly laid his book down, crossed his legs and prepared to answer.
“I’ve been out more often than you think. I took a turtle view of the town; I mean I sauntered up and down it and out of it, and it gave me as complete a sensation as I have had in twenty-four years. A better sensation, ma chère, and I am not likely to have another.”
Mrs. Bellamy listened, as she always did when her brother gave himself the trouble to speak more than one sentence at a time to any woman with whom he was not in love.