"How many children are there?"
"Why—twenty." Livingston caught at a number, as a sinking man catches at a twig.
As she accepted this, Livingstone was conscious of elation. He felt as though he were playing a game and had escaped the ignominy of a wrong answer: he had caught a bough and it held him.
"How old are they?"
Livingstone gasped. The little ogress! Was she just trifling with him? Could it be possible that she saw through him? As he looked down at her the eyes fastened on him were as calm as a dove's eyes.
"Why—ah—. How many brothers and sisters have you?" he asked.
He wished to create a diversion and gain time. She answered promptly.
"Seven: four sisters and three brothers. John, he's my oldest brother; Tom, he's next—he's eight. Billy is the baby."
This contribution of family history was a relief, and Livingstone was just trying to think of something else to say, when she demanded again,
"What are the ages of your children?"