"Guess."
"About ten, I think." Now this was malicious.
"Ten, indeed! I'm thirteen and ten months and—and three days," she returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age. "Were you at school in Europe?"
"Yes, in France and Hungary."
"That's queer. In Hungary and France—Oh! then you can speak French."
"Of course," he replied. "Can't you?"
"A little, but Aunt Ann says I have a good accent when I read to her—we often do."
"You should say 'without accent,'" he felt better after this assertion of superior knowledge. She thought his manners bad, but, though more amused than annoyed, felt herself snubbed and was silent for a time. He was quick to perceive that he had better have held his critical tongue, and said pleasantly, "But really it don't matter—only I was told that in France."
She was as quick to reply, "You shouldn't say 'don't matter,' I say that sometimes, and then Uncle James comes down on me."
"Why? I am really at a loss—"