This surprised me a good deal. I had talked a little with this man, and had thought him about sixty.
"Then a man of a hundred, according to your story, would look like—like——"
"Like Grandpa Ely," she offered.
I remembered my mother's father—a tall, straight, hale old man of seventy-five. He had a clear eye, a firm step, a rosy color in his face. Well, that wasn't so bad a prospect.
"I consent to be a hundred—on those terms," I told her.
* * * * *
She talked to me a good bit, in small daily doses, of the more general changes in the world, showed me new maps, even let me read a little in the current magazines.
"I suppose you have a million of these now," I said. "There were thousands when I left!"
"No," she answered. "There are fewer, I believe; but much better."
I turned over the one in my hand. It was pleasantly light and thin, it opened easily, the paper and presswork were of the best, the price was twenty-five cents.