“You aren’t thirty-four!” exclaimed she in genuine dismay.
“No, but I’m thirty-two. So you’re ten years younger than I. I guessed you younger than you are.”
“Yes, I’m twenty-two. But in our family we hold our own well—that is, mother does.”
These discoveries as to age seemed to give both the liveliest satisfaction. Said he: “You look younger—and talk younger.”
“That’s because I don’t make pretenses. People think that anyone who is still frank and simple must be very young—and very foolish.... I’ve been out four years. Do I seem ignorant and uninteresting to you?”
“No—very frank—naïve.”
She smiled, flushed, glanced shyly at him. “Do you know, I feel I know you better than I ever knew any man in my life—even my brothers!”
“Everyone says I’m easy to get acquainted with,” said he, practical and unappreciative.
She looked disappointed, but persisted. “I feel freer to talk with you. I’d tell you—anything—the things I think, but never dare say.”
“There aren’t any such things,” said he, hastening away from the personal. “Anything one really thinks one can’t help saying.”