“You are going home?” he said when he saw that she would not “lead,” no matter how long the silence might continue.
“No,” she replied. “We are English--at least, my father is.”
She just moved her shoulders, and there was the faintest sneer at the corner of her decidedly pretty mouth. “I don’t know--what does it matter about a woman? I’ve lived in England and France since I was five, except a year and a half in America. Father detests the country and the people. He was naturalised in England last year. I believe he decided that his social position, won through his being an American, was sufficiently established to make it safe for him to change.”
Frothingham smiled. As he was used to the freest and frankest criticisms of parents and other near relatives by fellow-countrymen of his own class, it did not impress him as unfilial that a daughter should thus deride a father. Honoria became silent, and apparently oblivious of his presence.
“I’ve never been to America,” he said, hoping to resurrect the dead conversation. “I’m looking forward to it with much pleasure. We have many Americans in our neighbourhood--such jolly people.”
“I know few Americans.” Honoria looked disdainful. “And they are like us, the most of them--expatriated. They say their country is a good place to make money in, but a horrible place to live--crude and ill-mannered, full of vulgar people that push in everywhere, and the servants fancying they’re ladies and gentlemen.”
“I hope it’s no worse to live in than England,” said Frothingham. “You know we’re always flying to the Continent to escape the climate and the dulness. And our middle-classes are very uppish nowadays, don’t you think?”
“I detest England.” Honoria put the first emphasis into her voice, but it was slight.
“Beastly hole, except for a few weeks in the spring, ain’t it? If it wasn’t for the hunting it would be deserted.”
He saw her cold, regular features light up. “I love hunting,” she said. “It’s the one thing that can make me forget myself, and everything except just being alive and well.” Then her face shadowed and chilled, and she looked at her book so significantly that Frothingham was forced to rise and leave.
At luncheon the man in the chair next him--Barney, who had told him in the first half-hour of their acquaintance all about his big dry-goods shop in Chicago--said: “I saw you talking to Longview on deck. Is he a friend of yours?”