"Good afternoon, Miss O'Neill." And before he had fully grasped to what fantastic extremes of behaviour the wild stimulation of her visit had brought him, he heard himself ask, as he held open the door: "How old are you?"
She halted, unastonished; and leant against the portal, hands clasped behind her back.
"Is this official enquiry? Shall I have to tell my age to the seven-and-seventy publishers who refuse the book? Because it might get about that way."
"Please forgive me. I—I can't think what came over me for the moment," painfully abashed.
"My dear man, I love your healthy young interest. I'm twenty-two-and-a-half. How old are you? Let's be frankly curious, by all means. What's your name. How many glass marbles have you got to play with?"
"My name is Gareth Temple. I'm forty-and-a-half. And I have one glass marble to play with.... At least, I had. But it's smashed."
"Recently?"
"Very recently."
"Something is amusing you; what is it?"
"Nothing...."