Contrary to popular belief – which is the state the idea has risen to since being circulated amongst the popular press – I am not precisely the innocent that Watson's narratives make me out to be. Though shocking John 'Three Continents' Watson is, perhaps, beyond my scope, I am at least not so unworldly as to be unaware of when I am being...flirted with.
Unfortunately I am also relatively prone to flattery.
When it comes to my work or my intellect, my reaction to the praise of any person, male or female, comely or plain, exhibits little variation – I blush and stammer like a professional beauty complimented on her looks. I ape Watson's description here – but it is one of the few instances in which his prose was as accurate as it was picturesque. It does little good to prevaricate about it – my ego is perhaps my sole vulnerable point.
It does not often become problematic – most women seem to be paradoxically expert at indicating interest in another by talking about themselves, or failing that confine their efforts to subtle comments on one's eyes, or his hands, or some other equally irrelevant physical quality (what evolutionary pressure wrote into the instincts of human kind a tendency to choose a mate based on eye color, I am sure I will never know).
It is inescapably true, however, that the spectrum of temperaments and personality traits which the female of the species may inherit is as broad and varied as that available to the male, and – as it is only natural for large populations to form distributions of traits rather than breaking down into rigid categories – an exception to the rule is sometimes encountered.
This one was waiting on the platform at London Bridge station. She was a student of philosophy. She was working on Hume's problem of induction and had made a study of my methods.
I was helpless.
She was familiar with my monographs, for God's sake.
Under the onslaught of learned compliments I am afraid I felt a good deal of heat rise in my face and my responses to her praise were generally stammered. Interest alone in my methods as a philosophical structure would have been flattering – but praise! I almost did naively overlook her veiled comments on the difference between my actual appearance and the illustrations Watson's stories were published with. Unfortunately, all my blushing and stammering with regard to the former was probably taken as a favorable response to the latter.
I am aware that when this occurs some of the decorum I prefer to maintain between myself and the rest of society is lost. I begin to look somewhat approachable. Fortunately any attempt at approach on the lady's part was precluded by the departure of her train. Watson's presence, however, I was forced to suffer all the way to our destination.
He fixed me with a knowing smirk as soon as we were settled into our compartment. It was clear as day what he was thinking. I admit that I felt a momentary impulse to strike the grin from his face, irked by his hubris in making such an assumption, but chose instead to scowl at him. It would have been a meaningful scowl, I am sure, had the presence of a flush not still have been making itself faintly known across my cheekbones.
Watson said the worst thing about this he possibly could have. "You're adorable when you're flattered."
I did not reply, but crossed my arms and turned my gaze out the window sharply.
"You liked her," added Watson.
I considered asking "Who?" but instead snapped: "Not at all."
"Well," allowed Watson happily, "you liked that she liked you."
"I appreciated that she appreciated my work," I corrected tersely, pausing to pull my gloves irritably from my fingers with my teeth.
"She was your type," continued Watson. "She had red hair."
"She was blonde."
"I believe the term is strawberry blonde. And you noticed."
"I notice everything!" I flung my gloves onto the bench beside me vehemently. "And I do not have a type."
"Every man has. It's natural to find certain qualities more attractive than others."
My type, I considered, in that case had more to do with a string of seemingly unconnected victims, a paucity of clues, and cloudy motives than the color of a woman's hair. Watson saw me frowning over this and, waving a hand, said: "Oh, alright, it is natural to find certain qualities more aesthetically appealing than others, if you like."
I turned the frown at him, half tempted to steeple my fingers and really scrutinize him for a moment. "You miss," I informed him with finality, "absolutely everything of importance."