"Mademoiselle,"—he wheeled round with unexpected vehemence,—"I should like you, to tell me exactly how old you think I am."
"You mean it, monsieur?"
"I mean it. Is it seventeen—or is it sixteen?" His voice was edged with irony.
"It is neither, monsieur!" Jacqueline was very demure now, her eyes sought the floor. "Granted your full permission, monsieur, I would say—"
"You would say—?"
"I would say"—she flashed a daring look at him and instantly dropped her eyes again—"I would say that you have twenty-four, if not twenty-five years!"
The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left her lips she moved toward the door, contemplating flight.
An immense surprise clouded Max's mind, a surprise that brought the blood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a stammering indecision.
"Twenty-four—twenty-five! What gave you that idea?"
"Oh, monsieur, it is simple! It came to me by observation!"