“He's rather—red; and he has—light hair.”
“It must be the family I'm thinking of,” said Mrs. Erwin. She had lived nearly twenty years in Europe, and had seldom revisited her native city; but at the sound of a Boston name she was all Bostonian again. She rapidly sketched the history of the family to which she imagined Staniford to belong. “I remember his sister; I used to see her at school. She must have been five or six years younger than I; and this boy—”
“Why, he's twenty-eight years old!” interrupted Lydia.
“How came he to tell you?”
“I don't know. He said that he looked thirty-four.”
“Yes; she was always a forward thing too,—with her freckles,” said Mrs. Erwin, musingly, as if lost in reminiscences, not wholly pleasing, of Miss Staniford.
“He has freckles,” admitted Lydia.
“Yes, it's the one,” said Mrs. Erwin. “He couldn't have known what your family was from anything you said?”
“We never talked about our families.”
“Oh, I dare say! You talked about yourselves?”