“In what way?” inquired Caerleon, too much relieved at finding some one with whom he might discuss his perplexities to feel angry at his brother’s interference.
“Why, the way she goes on from morning to night, slanging you all day long, and snapping your head off if you open your mouth! She’s making you the laughing-stock of the ship. When you come on deck together the men begin to grin.” This was a slight exercise of the imagination on Cyril’s part, although it was true that he had seen Captain Binks close his left eye on one occasion in a way that expressed unutterable things, intending the action for the benefit of Wright, who ignored it loftily.
“Well,” said Caerleon, “it pleases her—at least, I suppose it does, or I don’t see why she should do it—and it doesn’t hurt me much. But what makes her so angry with me I can’t tell.”
“I can. It’s her belief that you’re laughing at her.”
“But that’s absurd.”
“No, it isn’t. She thinks you don’t take her seriously, and the modern woman must be taken seriously, or die.”
“But Nadia is not a modern woman,” said Caerleon, placidly.
“Oh, I know she is a cross between a Puritan and an early Christian; but even those excellent people would have turned rusty if they had thought they were being humbugged. And she is in deadly earnest, and you do nothing but rag her.”
“Not intentionally, on my word and honour. But what am I to do? I can never manage to hit on the right thing to say. How did you learn to understand women, Cyril?”
“I didn’t learn, it is a gift—improved by cultivation, of course. You will never have it, old man,” Cyril dropped into Nadia’s chair as he spoke, and Caerleon leaned against the bulwark opposite him; “but if I may venture on one small bit of advice, do make an effort to understand the woman you want to marry.”