“Does Mammy think for the family?” asked the Professor, a funny smile lurking about the corners of his mouth.
Jean’s eyes twinkled as she answered:
“She was mother’s Mammy too.”
“Ah! I think I understand. I lived South until I was fifteen.”
“Did you? How old are you now?” was the second startling question.
“How old should you think?” was the essentially Yankee reply, which proved that the southern lad had learned a trick or two from his northern friends.
Jean regarded him steadily for a few moments.
“Well, when you raised your hat a few minutes ago your hair looked a little thin on top, so I guess you’re going to be bald pretty soon. But your eyes, when you laugh, look just about like the boys’. Perhaps you aren’t so very old though. Maybe you aren’t much older than Mr. Stuyvesant. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I know him. He is younger than I am though.” The Professor did not add “exactly six months.”
“Yes, I thought you were lots older. He’s the kind you feel is young and you’re the kind you feel is old, you know.”