"Yes," she nodded, "it was your build, and the color of your eyes and hair that—startled me."
"But, after all," said I, "the similarity is only skin-deep, and goes no farther."
"No," she answered, kneeling beside me again; "no, you are—only twenty-five!" And, as she said this, her eyes were hidden by her lashes.
"Twenty-five is—twenty-five!" said I, more sharply than before.
"Why do you smile?"
"The water is all dripping from your nose and chin!—stoop lower over the basin."
"And yet," said I, as well as I could on account of the trickling water, for she was bathing my face again, "and yet, you must be years younger than I."
"But then, some women always feel older than a man—more especially if he is hurt."
"Thank you," said I, "thank you; with the exception of a scratch, or so, I am very well!" But, as I moved, I caught my thumb clumsily against the table-edge, and winced with the sudden pain of it.
"What is it—your hand?"
"My thumb."