“Oh yes, you ought. You felt it, though you didn't know it. It's unfortunate for a girl always to impress people as tragic, don't you think? Men like us to be young. You're so young yourself--that's your hobby, according to Nan.--But if you want to know, you yourself made me think of something not quite happy--that's what kept me so quiet on the way up.” “I thought I'd done something amiss--that perhaps you were offended with me for the informal way in which I introduced myself.” She gave him no assurance that she had not been offended. “Here's what you made me think,” she said: “She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot.” “Rather nice, isn't it, to find that we've had such a cheerful effect on one another?” “But--but why on earth should I make you think of that?” She left off paddling and glanced away from him; a little shiver ran through her. When she spoke, her voice was low-pitched but still penetrating. “Let me ask you a question. Do you think that it's much fun being a girl?” “Never thought about it.” “Well, it isn't.” “I should have supposed that, for anyone who was young and good-looking, it might be barrel-loads of fun to be a girl in Oxford.” “Well, I tell you that it isn't. You're always wanting and wanting--wanting the things that men have, and that only men can give you. But they keep everything for themselves because they're like you, Mr. Barrington--they've never thought about it.” “I'm not sure that I understand.” “Bother! Why d'you force me to be so explicit? Take the case of Nan--she's one of thousands. She's got nothing of her own--no freedom, no money, no anything. She's always under orders; she's not expected to have any plans for her future. She creeps to the windows of the world and peeps out when her father isn't near enough to prevent her. Unless she marries, she'll always be prying and never sharing. She's a _Lady of Shalott_, shut up in a tower, weaving a web of fancies. She hears life tramp beneath her window, traveling in plume and helmet to the city. Unless a man frees her, she'll never get out.--Oh, I oughtn't to talk like this; I never have, to anyone except to Nan. Why do you make me? Now that it's said, I hate myself.” “Don't do that.” He spoke gently. “I'm glad you've done it. You've made me see further. We men always look at things from our own standpoint.--I suppose we're selfish.” He waited for her to deny that he was selfish. “There's no doubt about it,” she affirmed.