"Oh, he is!" protested Hilda as vigorously as whisper-talk would allow.
"Is what?"
"Les is twenty."
Louise had turned away from the larger mirror in the dresser and was trying to focus the back of her head with the aid of a small hand mirror, as women do who are particularly concerned about appearing at their best. She looked across oddly at her sister, who in turn blushed, lowering her eyes.
"Well, then, as you say. You seem to be pretty sure."
"Les told me he was," cried Hilda, as though vaguely to shift some sort of responsibility.
Louise relinquished the mirrors and sat down on the edge of the bed for the purpose of tying her shoes. "Listen, Hilda," she said; "you ought to go straight back to sleep. It's only four o'clock. Papa would be mad if he heard us."
"Oh, but he can't," replied Hilda, with the air of one who knows very accurately the acoustic properties of the house in which she dwells.
"But Aunt Marjie might," the other suggested.