He tossed it into the sea. "Beg pardon," he said. "It was stupid of me. I was absorbed in—in my book."
"What's the name of it?"
He turned it to glance at the cover, but she went on: "No—don't tell me. I've no desire to know. I asked merely to confirm my suspicion."
"You're right," he said. "I wasn't reading. I was looking at you."
"That was impertinent. A man should not look at a woman when she doesn't intend him to look."
"Then I'd never look at all. I'm interested only in things not meant for my eyes. I might even read letters not addressed to me if I didn't know how dull letters are. No intelligent person ever says anything in a letter nowadays. They use the telegraph for ordinary correspondence, and telepathy for the other kind. But it was interesting—looking at you as you lay asleep."
"Was my mouth open?"
"A little."
"Am I yellow?"
"Very."