"I am twenty-six," said Margaret.
"And he is thirty-five," added Garda.
"I suppose they both seem great ages to you," observed Margaret, smiling.
"It's of very little consequence in a man—his age," replied the young girl. "I confess that I thought you older than twenty-six; but it's not because you look old, it's because you look as if you did not care whether people thought you old or not, and generally it's only women who are really old, you know, over thirty, like mamma and Mrs. Carew, who have that expression—don't you think so? And I fancy you don't care much about dress, either," she went on. "Everything you wear is very beautiful; still, I don't believe you care about it. Yet you would carry it off well, any amount of it, you are so tall."
"I think you are as tall as I am," said Margaret, amused by these unconventional utterances.
"Come and see," replied Garda, suddenly. She took Margaret's hand and rose.
"What is it we are to do?" inquired Margaret, obeying the motion without comprehending its object.
"Come," repeated Garda.
They passed into the back drawing-room, and Garda led the way towards a large mirror.
"But we do not wish to survey ourselves in the presence of all this company," said Margaret, pausing.