“By George!” The exclamation came from him, husky with awe.
There was a fateful silence.
“Yes, I was born on the eighth,” she said slowly.
“And me on the seventh!” At such a time no man is a purist.
“It is strange,” she said.
“Strange! I came into the world just one day before you did!”
They looked at each other curiously, deeply stirred. Coincidence could not account for these birthdays of theirs, nor chance for their meeting on a train “like this.” Henry Millick Chester was breathless. The mysteries were glimpsed. No doubt was possible—he and the wondrous creature at his side were meant for each other, intended from the beginning of eternity.
She dropped her eyes slowly from his, but he was satisfied that she had felt the marvel precisely as he had felt it.
“Don’t you think,” she said gently, “that a girl has seen more of the world at twenty than a man?”
Mr. Chester well wished to linger upon the subject of birthdays; however, the line of original research suggested by her question was alluring also. “Yes—and no,” he answered with admirable impartiality. “In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. For instance, you take the case of a man that’s in love——”