“Well, I’m forty-five,” said the Mayor.
“Forty-five,” repeated Berty, musingly, “just think of it! You seem quite young in your ways.”
“Young—I dare say I feel as young as you,” he replied. “I wish you were a bit older.”
“Why?” asked Berty, innocently.
“Oh, well, I don’t know why,” he replied, with sudden sheepishness.
Roger glanced at Grandma. It was not like her to play eavesdropper.
But dear Grandma was not hearing a word of what was being said below. Her knitting had fallen from her hand, her head had dropped forward, her cheeks were gently puffing in and out. She was quietly and unmistakably asleep.
Roger smiled, and kept on listening. He had no scruples on his own account, and he wanted his question answered. Why was the Mayor dangling about Berty?
Mr. Jimson was still on the subject of matrimony. The quiet evening, the, as he supposed, secluded spot, Berty’s amiability, all tended to excite confidence in him.