“Well, you know you do—Shall I say it?”
“Yes.”
“You do receive friendliness a good deal at the point of the sword.”
“I’ve learnt my lesson.” As Hildegarde said nothing, “Wait till you are—” But any inclination to be more explicit vanished.
Hildegarde thought she had intended to say, “Wait till you’re as old as I.” “I have a feeling you know immensely more than I do,” said the girl, “but I don’t believe you’re much older.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Well, I’m twenty-six.”
“You don’t look that much.”
“I suppose it’s having eyes so wide apart.”
“No, I think it’s your childish chin and your air of believing everything. But, anyhow, my thirty-two counts double.” Then, as if again to turn the conversation away from herself, “You’re an infant, but rather a wise infant, after all,” she added, relenting a little. “Only what takes you to Nome?”