"So did you rhapsodize over Scotland," I retorted; "and I 'll rhapsodize if I never go; and you 're not to quench my enthusiasm with any of your Scotch mist that I am told is nothing less than a downpour."
"By the way, when is your birthday, Marcia?" said the Doctor, carefully, oh, so carefully, knocking the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. The act was so very cautious that it betrayed to me his restrained expectancy of my answer! "I have an idea it's the last of June."
How light I was of heart in answering him, in giving him the clew he was seeking as I would have made him a gift, fully, freely—for what was it to me now, whether he knew or not?
"Next December, when the north wind blows over the Canada snows, you may remember me, if you will."
"What date?"
I waited intentionally for him to ask that question. I felt that Cale was holding his breath; but I did n't care, and replied without hesitation:
"The third—twenty-seven years. What an age!"
They laughed at me, one and all, the Doctor perhaps a little more heartily than the others. After that he sat, with one exception, silent; but Jamie spoke half impatiently:
"Why did n't you give us a chance to celebrate last December?"
"Nobody asked me about it."