‘Well, perhaps not, by a year or so,’ says Betty, as if determined on being absolutely fair and accurate to a fraction.
‘Do you know,’ says Susan, a little reluctantly, but as though she must say it, ‘I—of course, I know he is ever so much older than any of us, but, for all that, somehow, he doesn’t seem to me to be—well, old, you know.’
Betty nods, and Susan, encouraged by this treacherous sign, rashly takes a further step.
‘It has even sometimes seemed to me,’ says she nervously, ‘that he is quite young.’
‘That reminds me of something I read this morning,’ says Betty, who is beginning to enjoy herself. ‘It ran like this: “On the whole, I consider him one of the youngest men of my acquaintance.”’
‘Where did you read that?’ asks Susan, with open suspicion.
‘In a book’—smartly.
‘Well, I suppose so. And what book, and who said it?’
‘A frisky duchess.’
‘She was young, of course?’