“I—what?”
“You have been sizing me up. I want to know the result.”
“You shall not,” he said stubbornly. “I—I beg pardon; I have lost the knack of polite fencing.”
“I had read that Englishmen were blunt and truthful beings—either through conscious superiority or lack of complexity, I forget which. My father and the few others out here are almost denationalised.”
“Well, I did beg pardon. And when a man is talking and receiving impressions at the same time, the impressions are not very well defined.”
“But you think quickly and jump at conclusions. And minds of that sort sometimes make mistakes.”
“I frequently make mistakes. Among the few things I have learned is not to judge people at sight—nor in a lifetime, for that matter. I certainly don’t pretend to size up women, particularly women like yourself.”
“That was very neat. Why myself? I am a very transparent young person.” She flirted her lashes at him, but he fancied he saw a gleam of defiance shoot between them.
“You are not transparent. If you are kind enough to let me see a good deal of you, I fancy I shall know something of twenty Miss Randolphs by the time I leave California.”