“You audacious young fledgeling!” exclaimed her cousin. “How dare you make me out such a blasé old fellow? How old am I, do you suppose?”
“I really don’t quite know.”
“I am just barely thirty-three—not entirely superannuated yet!”
“About three years older than Mr. Gaston!” said Margaret, reflectively.
“I can’t understand the inflection of your voice,” said Alan, rather eagerly; “do I seem that much older than he?”
“I hardly know,” answered Margaret, still in the same thoughtful tone. “Mr. Gaston is such a busy man that he bears the impress of cares and responsibilities, and that makes him seem older; but in his feelings he seems worlds younger than you.”
“And haven’t I cares and responsibilities too, I’d like to know! Wait till I’m fairly launched in my profession, and see how I will peg away at my briefs and documents.”
“Oh, Alan!” said Margaret, smiling indulgently, in a way that irritated him; “it is impossible to imagine you really at work. Have you ever practised at all?”
“Not yet. Circumstances have prevented, and I remained abroad much longer than I had any idea of doing; but one thing after another detained me. After Christmas, however, I am going to open an office and go to work in earnest.”
He spoke with confidence, but his tone did not impose upon his cousin, who in her heart had but small belief in his work. The fact was becoming more and more evident to her, that the nomadic life this elegant young gentleman had led had held him back from strong purposes, however much it had advanced him in social accomplishments and graces.