"You're a great deal too old for Rufie, Mrs. Clifton," said Rose, with more plainness than politeness.
"I'm not quite so young as you are, Rose," said Mrs. Clifton, somewhat annoyed. "How old do you think I am?"
"Most fifty," answered Rose, honestly.
"Mercy sake!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, horrified, "what a child you are! Why don't you say a hundred, and done with it?"
"How old are you, Mrs. Clifton?" persisted Rose.
"Well, if you must know, I shall be twenty-five next November."
Mrs. Clifton was considerably nearer thirty-five; but, then, some ladies are very apt to be forgetful of their age.
The dinner-hour passed, and Rose and Miss Manning left the table. They went upstairs hoping that Rufus might be there before them; but the room was empty. An hour and a half passed, and it was already beyond eight, the hour at which Rose usually went to bed.
"Can't I sit up a little later to-night, Miss Manning?" pleaded Rose. "I want to see Rufie."
"No, Rose, I think not. You'll see him in the morning."