She said coolly: "Women should be ritualists. It is safer."

"It is not necessary in this case. I haven't the slightest hope of
making this incident a foundation for another; I haven't the least idea
that I shall ever see you again. But for me to pretend an imbecile
indifference to you or to the situation would be a more absurd example
of self-consciousness than even you have charged me with."

Wrath and surprise in her turn widened her eyes; he held up his hand:
"One moment; I have not finished. May I go on?"

And, as she said nothing, he resumed: "During the few minutes we have
been accidentally thrown together, I have not seen a quiver of human
humour in you. _There_ is the self-consciousness--the absorbed
preoccupation with appearances."

"What is there humourous in the situation?" she demanded, very pink.

"Good Lord! What is there humourous in any situation if you don't make
it so?"

"I am not a humourist," she said.

She sat in the bows, one closed hand propping her chin; and sometimes
her clear eyes, harboring lightning, wandered toward him, sometimes
toward the shore.

"Suppose you continue to row," she said at last. "I'm doing you the
honour of thinking about what you've said."