“You are young,” she said gently.
“It’s true that I’m not very old,” he answered. “I was five-and-twenty on my last birthday.”
“Five-and-twenty,” repeated Mrs. Bowring very slowly, and looking at the distance, with the air of a person who is making a mental calculation.
“Are you surprised?” asked the young man, watching her.
She started a little.
“Surprised? Oh dear no! Why should I be?”
And again she looked at him earnestly, until, realising what she was doing, she suddenly shut her eyes, shook herself almost imperceptibly, and took out some work which she had brought out with her.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I thought you might fancy I was a good deal older or younger. But I’m always told that I look just my age.”
“I think you do,” answered Mrs. Bowring, without looking up.