"Don't make a mock of me," he pleaded.
She turned to look at him. "What age are you?" she demanded.
"I'm near nineteen," he answered.
"And I'm twenty-two," she retorted. "Twenty-two past, I am. Four years older nor you!..."
"That doesn't matter," he insisted.
"It wouldn't if the ages was the other way round ... you twenty-two and me nineteen!"
"It doesn't matter what way they are. It's not age that matters: it's feeling!"
"You'll feel different, mebbe, when you're a bit older. What would people say if I was to marry you now, after meeting you a couple of times, and you four years younger nor me?"
"It doesn't matter what they'd say," he replied. "Sure, people are always saying something!"
She ruminated! "I like going out with you well enough, and you're a queer, nice wee fellow, but it's foolish talk to be talking of getting married. What trade are you at?"