The Philosopher gave her a blinking, side-long glance.
“Really! Has he managed to impress that favourable view of himself upon your credulous mind?”
“I don’t think he has tried to impress anything at all upon me,” she said. “Only I notice that he always considers the pleasure of other people more than his own.”
“Exceedingly quixotic,” commented the Philosopher, drily. “And all the merest affectation. The man who is always looking after the pleasure of other people attracts attention to himself—which is what he seeks. The man who looks after his own comfort passes without notice,—which is the right attitude. To call people’s attention to yourself by any action whatsoever is very bad form.”
She looked at him in wondering enquiry.
“The man,” pursued the Philosopher, hugging himself as it were in the wrapping of his own theories—“who persists in handing round bread-and-butter and cake at a tea-table instead of sitting still, is a nuisance. His plain business is to help himself, and let others take care of their own needs. It is not his business to see whether the women get their bread-and-butter and cake—in these days of female emancipation they can look after themselves. He is a much more sensible creature when he does not obtrude himself upon them by tiresome and needless attentions. The same rule should apply to door-opening. There are men who invariably disturb conversation by jumping up to open a door for a woman to pass out. Detestable! I have had many a good story of mine spoilt by this atrocious habit,—Americans always do it.”
“Americans are very kind to women,” she said. “I like their ways.”
He sniffed, as though offended by some noxious odour.
“You do, do you?” he retorted. “Well—I don’t.”
There was a pause. Presently—