"
"And do you believe it?"
"Course I do," he said. "Even if you had the brains or the knowledge
for--say research work, I couldn't work with you. I'd be thinking of the
way your lips look when they're getting ready to kiss me; and of your
white shoulders that I can just catch a peep of when you sit a little
way behind me, in that white blouse with little fleur-de-lys on the
collar. Naturally if I tried to work then, the work would go to pot."
"But--" she tried to control her voice, which shook in spite of herself,
"do you--think of those things--about me?"
"Of course. All men do about their women."
"It's horrible," she gasped, frowning at the Southern Cross. "And
doesn't it mean that men are specialized, too?"
"Not a bit of it! Men have to do the work of the world. Women are just
the softness of life."
"Cushions for men to fall on?" she said mischievously.
"No, half-holidays when he's fed up with work." He looked at her,
laughing at her indignant face. "Why be superior, Marcella? You're just
as bad as anyone else, only you're not used to it and haven't thought of
it before. Who likes being kissed?"
"Oh, but it wouldn't get in the way of my work," she cried, flushing
hotly.
"Wait till you try it, dear child. The first time I ever got the fever
taught me a lot. It wasn't love, of course.
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