What an absurd question to ask. Why, because—but how could Humphrey tell her, when they had hardly known each other for a quarter of an hour.
"I hope you didn't think it rude of me stopping you like that," he ventured, after a pause.
"Oh no ... though I suppose you think it's dreadful of me to be sitting with you like this."
To tell the truth, Humphrey considered the whole thing was extraordinarily dashing—that he should be sitting facing her over a cup of tea; to have learnt her name—Lilian Filmer—Lilian, beautiful name!—and to be carrying it off so calmly.
"Not at all," he said.
Her next words fell like a shower of cold water over him.
"You're such a boy," she said, with her eyes smiling indulgently at him.
He resented that, of course. "I'm twenty-one," he said loudly. "You're not more than twenty-one, I'm sure."
"Perhaps I'm not," she answered, taking a tiny watch from her bosom. She sighed. "I must go."
"Look here," said Humphrey, "are we going to meet again?"