“He can’t be much more,” cried Mrs. Doria. “I think,” she appeared to reflect, and then faltered imploringly to Adrian, “What is Richard’s age?”
The kind wise youth could not find it in his heart to strike away the phantom straw she caught at.
“Oh! about that, I should fancy,” he muttered; and found it necessary at the same time to duck and turn his head for concealment. Mrs. Doria surpassed his expectations.
“Yes I well, then...” Brandon was resuming with a shrug, which was meant to say he still pledged himself to nothing, when Clare’s voice was heard from out the buzzing circle of her cousins: “Richard is nineteen years and six months old to-day, mama.”
“Nonsense, child.”
“He is, mama.” Clare’s voice was very steadfast.
“Nonsense, I tell you. How can you know?”
“Richard is one year and nine months older than me, mama.”
Mrs. Doria fought the fact by years and finally by months. Clare was too strong for her.
“Singular child!” she mentally apostrophized the girl who scornfully rejected straws while drowning.