"So it runs. We ground our general life on theories, and then the facts come up and slap us in the face." Randolph rose and relieved the basswood of the first garments. "Are you about ready for that final dip?"
Cope made his last plunge and returned red and shivering to use the two handkerchiefs.
"Well, we have thirty minutes," said Randolph, as they resumed their march. On the one hand the ragged line of dunes with their draping, dense or slight, of pines, lindens and oaks; on the other the unruffled expanse of blue, spreading toward a horizon even less determinate than before.
"No, I'm not at all apt," said Cope, returning to his theme; "not even for self-defense. I suppose I'm pretty sure to get caught some time or other."
"Each woman according to her powers and gifts. Varying degrees of desire, of determination, of dexterity. To be just, I might add a fourth d—devotion."
"You've run the gauntlet," said Cope. "You seem to have come through all right."
"Well," Randolph returned deprecatingly, "I can't really claim ever to have enlisted any woman's best endeavors."
"I hope I shall have the same good luck. Of your four d's, it's the dexterity that gives me the most dread."
"Yes, the appeal (not always honest) to chivalry,—though devotion is sometimes a close second. You're manoeuvred into a position where you're made to think you 'must.' I've known chaps to marry on that basis…. It's weary waiting until Madame dies and Madonna steps into her place."
"Meanwhile, safety in numbers."