“You are not ecstatic over all this,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“Only within reasonable limits,” replied the American. “It's very pretty, and when you see it for the first time it fetches you in the pit of your stomach. Some folks say it touches the soul, but I don't take much stock of souls anyway. Well, then you get over it, like sea-sickness, and it doesn't fetch you any more. But I'm glad I've seen it. That is what I came over for.”
“To see the Alps?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But to sample Europe generally. To get a bird's-eye view of all the salient features. It is very interesting. America is a fine country, but it's not the microcosm of the universe.”
“But you have scenery much more grandiose than this, in the Californian Sierras,” said Raine.
“We may. I don't know. And I hope I shall never know, for mountains and glaciers are not my strong point. But if they were fifty times as sublime, American mountains could not have the glamour and sentiment that brings thousands of my countrymen to gape at Mount Blanc. Other mountains may do business on a larger scale, but the Alps is an old-established firm. They have the connection, and people stick to them. Mount Blanc, too, is a sort of Westminister Abbey to Americans, and the Rigi a Stratford-on-Avon. They like to feel they have a share in it. I don't say these are my views personally. I am afraid I take my glamour neat and get it over quickly.”
As Raine had nothing particular to reply to this philosophy, and as he saw that Mr. Hockmaster would be more entertaining as a talker than as a listener, he uttered a polite commonplace by way of antistrophe, and the American again took up his parable. He spoke well and fluently. Behind the ingenuousness of his remarks there generally lurked a touch of incisiveness, which stimulated his listener's interest. His manners were those of a gentleman. Raine began to like him.
“What part of England do you come from?” he asked at length.
“Oxford.”
“The University?”