"Why do you insinuate that I only want to do things that pay?"
"I told you I wrote stories, didn't I? Well, to write stories, one must make a study of Man. I do. And I never found it dull yet."
"I'm glad you don't find it dull where I'm concerned," said Val. "But I'm not glad you consider me a swine."
"Lucky I've just been in England, and heard other Englishmen talk," said the girl. "If not, I should hardly understand that pretty expression."
"So you've been making a study of other Englishmen? What did you think of us?"
"That you, as a race, are very tall and tweedy. And that you aren't precisely dissatisfied with yourselves."
It was the next morning, and they were pacing up and down the long white deck. Loveland had joined Miss Dearmer as she walked, and she had not been repellent in her manner. Yet somehow her friendliness did not encourage him to increasing conceit. Even before she had made that little remark about studying Man, he had vaguely felt that she read him as if he were a cypher of which she had found the key.
"I hope you met the right kind of men," he said.
"You mean, men like you? You see, I know who you are, now."
"Who told you anything about me?"