"Yes," she said, "but not in public. I know what you men are."

This was in the early, timid days of feminine smoking.

"I assure you!" he protested, and pushed the box towards her. But she
would not smoke.

"It isn't that I mind _you_," she said, "not at all. But I'm not
well. I've got a frightful headache."

He put on a concerned expression.

"I _thought_ you looked rather pale," he said awkwardly.

"Pale!" she repeated the word. "You should have seen me this morning: I
have fits of dizziness, you know, too. The doctor says it's nothing but
dyspepsia. However, don't let's talk about poor little me and my silly
complaints. Perhaps the tea will do me good."

He protested again, but his experience of intimate civilisation was too
brief to allow him to protest with effectiveness. The truth was, he
could not say these things naturally. He had to compose them, and then
pronounce them, and the result failed in the necessary air of
spontaneity. He could not help thinking what marvellous self-control
women had. Now, when he had a headache--which happily was seldom--he
could think of nothing else and talk of nothing else; the entire
universe consisted solely of his headache. And here she was overcome
with a headache, and during more than half-an-hour had not even
mentioned it!