He looked up at the sky—they were on the common—an autumn stretch of pearls and purples, with here and there a streak of wistful blue, as if seeking the inspiration of a reason.
"Because no one has married me," he replied.
Emmy laughed. "That's just like you. You expect a woman to drag you out of your house by the scruff of your neck and haul you to church without your so much as asking her."
"I've heard that lots of women do," said Septimus.
Emmy looked at him sharply. Every woman resents a universal criticism of her sex, but cannot help feeling a twinge of respect for the critic. She took refuge in scorn.
"A real man goes out and looks for a wife."
"But suppose he doesn't want one?"
"He must want a woman to love. What can his life be without a woman in it? What can anybody's life be without some one to care for? I really believe you're made of sawdust. Why don't you fall in love?"
Septimus took off his hat, ran his fingers through his upstanding hair, re-covered his head, and looked at her helplessly.
"Oh, no! I'm booked. It's no use your falling in love with me."