“I’m not!” he protested. “It’s true! If I was younger, Mamie, I’d be falling in love with you!”
“Younger!”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“A tremendous age!” she echoed, glancing up at him.
“Ten years older than you!”
“Pooh! What’s ten years?”
“Well, it’s a good deal,” said Allan, rising with an effort. “And I feel considerably older than twenty-seven to-night—more like forty! You can keep on sitting up, if you want to, but I’m going to bed. Good-night.”
Mamie had risen too, a strange light in her eyes. She watched him as he turned away, and then, when his hand was on the knob of the door, she called him.
“Allan.”
“Yes?” he said, turning and looking at her.