"Snow bad?" he asked. If he could only have run his hands through that curly mass! The memory of her hair brushing against his face made his temples throb dully.
"Yes, my hair is filled with it. I caught my cap on a branch, and the whole load of snow came down on top of me."
"How old are you, Claire?" he demanded suddenly.
She laughed. "Guess! Don't you know it isn't good form to ask a lady her age?"
"Sometimes you are quite thirty, and other times—"
"Well, go on." Claire was standing at the opposite side of the fireplace with her back to the flame.
"Other times, you are two," Lawrence continued calmly.
"I thought that was coming. Well, just to prove what a really nice person I am, I'll tell you. I'm twenty-six."
"When were you married, Claire?" Her breath tightened at his question.
"Curiosity is a wonderful thing, and the impudence of man passeth all understanding. I have been married exactly six years, three months, and twenty-four days." The last sentence brought the catch into her voice that Lawrence had expected.