The Firing Line. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ felt that his ears were growing red; she noticed it, too, and added: "I do not mean to be too rude; and I am quite sure you do not either."

      "Of course not," he said; "only I couldn't help seeing the humour of romance in our ocean encounter. I think anybody would—except you—"

      "What?"

      The crisp, quick question which, with her, usually seemed like an exclamation, always startled him into temporary silence; then he began more carefully:

      "There was one chance in a million of your finding my boat in the fog. If you hadn't found it—" He shook his head. "And so I wish you might recognise in our encounter something amusing, humourous"—he looked cautiously at her—"even mildly romantic—ah—enough to—to—"

      "To what?"

      "Why—to say—to do something characteristically—ah—"

      "What?"

      "—Human!" he ventured—quite prepared to see her rise wrathfully and go overboard.

      Instead she remained motionless, those clear, disconcerting eyes fixed steadily on him. Once or twice he thought that her upper lip quivered; that some delicate demon of laughter was trying to look out at him under the lashes; but not a lid twitched; the vivid lips rested gravely upon each other. After a silence she said:

      "What is it, human, that you expect me to do? Flirt with you?"

      "Good Lord, no!" he said, stampeded.

      She was now paying him the compliment of her full attention; he felt the dubious flattery, although it slightly scared him.

      "Why is it," she asked, "that a man is eternally occupied in thinking about the effect he produces on woman—whether or not he knows her—that seems to make no difference at all? Why is it?"

      He turned redder; she sat curled up, nursing both ankles, and contemplating him with impersonal and searching curiosity.

      "Tell me," she said; "is there any earthly reason why you and I should be interested in each other—enough, I mean, to make any effort toward civility beyond the bounds of ordinary convention?"

      He did not answer.

      "Because," she added, "if there is not, any such effort on your part borders rather closely on the offensive. And I am quite sure you do not intend that."

      He was indignant now, but utterly incapable of retort.

      "Is there anything romantic in it because a chance swimmer rests a few moments in somebody's boat?" she asked. "Is that chance swimmer superhuman or inhuman or ultra-human because she is not consciously, and simperingly, preoccupied with the fact that there happens to be a man in her vicinity?"

      "Good heavens!" he broke out, "do you think I'm that sort of noodle—"

      "But I don't think about you at all," she interrupted; "there is not a thought that I have which concerns you as an individual. My homily is delivered in the abstract. Can't you—in the abstract—understand that?—even if you are a bit doubtful concerning the seven deadly conventions?"

      He rested on his oars, tingling all over with wrath and surprise.

      "And now," she said quietly, "I think it time to go. The sun is almost shining, you see, and the beauty of the scene is too obvious for even you to miss."

      "May I express an opinion before you depart?"

      "If it is not a very long or very dissenting opinion."

      "Then it's this: two normal and wholesome people—man and a woman, can not meet, either conventionally or unconventionally, without expressing some atom of interest in one another as individuals. I say two—perfectly—normal—people—"

      "But it has just happened!" she insisted, preparing to rise.

      "No, it has not happened."

      "Really. You speak for yourself of course—"

      "Yes, I do. I am interested; I'd be stupid if I were not. Besides, I understand conventions as well as you do—"

      "You don't observe them—"

      "I don't worship them!"

      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."

      He resumed the oars, still sitting facing her, and pushed the boat slowly forward; and, as they continued their progress in silence, her brooding glance wavered, at intervals, between him and the coast.

      "Haven't you any normal human curiosity concerning me?" he asked so boyishly that, for a second, again from her eyes, two gay little demons seemed to peer out and laugh at him.

      But her lips were expressionless, and she only said: "I have no curiosity. Is that criminally abnormal?"

      "Yes; if it is true. Is it?"

      "I suppose it is too unflattering a truth for you to believe." She checked herself, looked up at him, hesitated. "It is not absolutely true. It was at first. I am normally interested now. If you knew more about me you would very easily understand my lack of interest in people I pass; the habit of not permitting myself to be interested—the necessity of it. The art of indifference is far more easily acquired than the art of forgetting."

      "But surely," he said, "it can cost you no effort to forget me."

      "No, of course not." She looked at him, unsmiling: "It was the acquired habit of indifference in me which you mistook for—I think you mistook it for stupidity. Many do. Did you?"

      But the guilty amusement on his face answered her; she watched him silently for a while.

      "You are quite right in one way," she said; "an unconventional encounter like this has no significance—not enough to dignify it with any effort toward indifference. But until I began to reprove man in the abstract, I really had not very much interest in you as an individual."

      And, СКАЧАТЬ