'You cannot reduce that to a science,' he said at length conclusively.
'I think most things in life can be reduced to a science.'
'I know you do—but you are mistaken. You would reduce life itself to a science, and make it quite unworth the living. Courage can no more be spoken of generally than other strictly human qualities, because no two minds are quite alike. I suppose you think that personal bravery is a mere matter of habit.'
'Not entirely.'
'Scarcely at all, Brenda. A brave man is a brave man on shore, at sea, and in a balloon. A fox-hunter may be nervous in a boat. If so, I say he is at heart a coward, despite his fox-hunting. When a sailor is uncomfortable in a dogcart he is not naturally a brave man, though at sea he borrow a false confidence from familiarity with what landsmen take to be danger.'
'What suggested the idea to me,' said the girl after a pause, 'was that flash of lightning just now—when we first came on deck. I was not really frightened. I know that one never sees the flash by which one is struck....'
'Scientific courage,' interrupted Trist gently.
'But I was startled. You never stirred excepting a mere physical motion caused by the brilliancy of the flash. Where was the difference then?'
'I think that was habit. It is easy enough to acquire the self-control necessary to prevent one's self being startled by anything whatsoever. It is after the shock of surprise that courage is required. I have watched men of different constitutions in moments of danger, and have found that the mere act of jumping back or bobbing the head is a physical effect caused by surprise as much as fear. I have seen a man who was distinctly startled act, and act wisely, as well as rapidly, sooner than one who betrayed no sign of being moved.'
'I have often wondered,' murmured Brenda reflectively, 'how certain people would act at a crisis. I have often longed to see you, for instance, on a battle-field.'