I don't believe I know exactly how men consider such matters....

You've managed to hook that fly into my gown again! And now you've torn the skirt hopelessly! What a devastating sort of creature you are, Delancy! You used to step on my slippers at dancing school, and, oh, Heaven! how I hated you....

Where are you going ?" for he had begun to walk away, reeling in his wet line as he moved, his grave, highly coloured face lowered, troubled eyes intent on what he was doing.
When she spoke, he halted and raised his head, and she saw the muscles flexed under the bronze skin of the jaw--saw the lines of pain appear where his mouth tightened.

All of the clumsy boy in him had vanished; she had never troubled herself to look at him very closely, and it surprised her to see how worn his face really was under the eyes and cheek-bones--really surprised her that there was much of dignity, even of a certain nobility, in his quiet gaze.
"I asked you where you are going ?" she repeated with a faint smile.
"Nowhere in particular." "But you are going _somewhere_, I suppose." "I suppose so." "In my direction ?" "I think not." "That is very rude of you, Delancy--when you don't even know where my direction lies.

Do you think," she demanded, amused, "that it is particularly civil of a man to terminate an interview with a woman before she offers him his conge ?" He finished reeling in his line, hooked the drop-fly into the reel-guide, shifted his creel, buttoned on the landing-net, and quietly turned around and inspected Mrs.Dysart.
"I want to tell you something," he said.