“I? Nothing!” He puffed at his pipe enjoyingly, then he went on after a pause—“What I was going to say is, that if you were a man you wouldn’t mind my looking at the scenery instead of at you!”
She laughed outright.
“Oh, my good sir! Do I mind?”
“You must mind!” he said, argumentatively. “Being a woman you are compelled to mind! No woman can forgive a man for looking at trees and skies instead of looking at her. She feels she should be the centre of his thoughts. She is very often.”
“Is she?”
“There!” And the Philosopher sighed. “I knew you would ask that question! Yes,—if you will have it, she is. But a centre implies a surrounding—and if a woman does happen to be the centre of a man’s thoughts she should realise that she is only the pin’s point round which the mightier forces of life revolve. Round which the mightier forces of life revolve!” The Philosopher took the pipe out of his mouth in order to let this sentence roll over his tongue like a luscious jujube or chocolate cream. “Do you understand?”
“Quite!” she replied.
He gave her an oblique glance in which there was something of fun mingled with fire.
“Well, you are a very good girl!” he said, suddenly. “You may do what you like now!” And he slipped his arm through hers again—“I have had a slight attack of gout. I need a little support.”
She turned her face towards his, dimpling with smiles.