"Have you just found that out?" I retorted. "Well, you have n't cut all your wisdom teeth yet. And now, as you seem to think it's Doctor Rugvie I 'm most interested in, we 'll begin with your Mr. Ewart." I changed my tactics, for I feared I had shown too much eagerness for information about Doctor Rugvie.
"My Mr. Ewart!" He smiled to himself in a way that exasperated me.
"Yes, your Mr. Ewart. How old is he? For all you 've told me he might be a grandfather."
"Ewart—a grandfather!" Again he laughed, provokingly as I thought. I kept silence.
"Honestly, Marcia, I don't know Ewart's age, and"—he was suddenly serious—"for all I know, he may be a grandfather."
"For all you know! What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I never seriously gave Gordon Ewart's age a thought. When I am with him he seems, somehow, as young as I—younger in one way, for he has such splendid health. But I suppose he really is old enough to be my father—forty-five or six, possibly; I don't know."
"Is he married?"
Jamie brought his hand down upon his knee with such a whack that the old cart-horse gave a queer hop-skip-and-jump. We both laughed at his antic.
"There you have me, Marcia. I 'm floored in your first round of questions. I don't know exactly—"