"He is, rather."
"He is older than you?"
"Unfortunately, yes, a little."
"You, then, are very young?"
"Well, I'm not exactly an infant,"—rather piqued at the cool superiority of her tone: "I am twenty-six."
"So I should have thought," says Mrs. Arlington, quietly, which assertion is as balm to his wounded spirit.
"Are your brother and his ward much attached to each other?" asks she, idly, with a very palpable endeavor to make conversation.
"Not very much,"—laughing, as he remembers certain warlike passages that have occurred between Guy and Lilian, in which the former has always had the worst of it.
"No? She prefers you, perhaps?"
"I really don't know: we are very good friends, and she is a dear little thing."