"You are twenty-one," he said, with no apparent connection.
"I am twenty-one," she answered, not failing to remark that the words showed that his thoughts had been of her.
"A girl at twenty-one," he continued, "is old enough to know her own mind."
"This girl at twenty-one certainly knows her own mind."
"Humph! I suppose so—or thinks she does."
Another long silence followed, more intense than before. Both were conscious of a secret excitement,—an electric condition of the mental atmosphere. At last Putnam, as if the question of ages was of the most vital interest, spoke again.
"I am thirty-two," he said.
"You are thirty-two," she echoed.
"Do you think that so old?"