“As a means of justifying yourself,” she said, “I should find your philosophy needlessly circuitous. I hate justifications.”
“Now don’t,” I pleaded, “don’t upset my theory that every one—even a woman—prefers to be justified, is justified, in his (I wish we had taken up that new pronoun thon’s) own sight before doing anything.”
“How stupid! Can’t you see that your justification takes all the fun for me out of your conversation? Now, if you couldn’t justify yourself there would be something in it.”
“But I haven’t said that I do.”
“O I can feel it! You have a justified tone.”
“What an infliction!” I moaned. “A justified tone must be worse than a sanctified one. Isn’t it enough that I simply can’t help talking to you?”
“Certainly not. If you weren’t immersed in theories you would know that to a woman nothing could ever be enough.”
“It sometimes seems so,” I assented. “You might have reminded me of that.”
“Evidently you are meditating a cynicism. I can hear the rumble of it in the distance.”