“Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.”
Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and a great partiality for the company of young people.
“I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was just six months—”
“You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. “I'm not so fond of telling my age to strangers.”
“You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do that. Very free you was in coming out with mine.”
“I ain't the only one that's free,” breathed the quivering Mrs. Jobling. “I 'ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the visitor.
“Much better, thank you,” was the reply.
“Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling.
The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,” she said, rising.
Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted them as a matter of course.