[14]

“You aren’t so very old—are you?” said she pensively. “You look and talk experienced. And yet—I don’t believe you are much older than I am.”

“A dozen years—at least.”

“You aren’t thirty-four!” exclaimed she in genuine dismay.

“No, but I’m thirty-two. So you’re ten years younger than I. I guessed you younger than you are.”

“Yes, I’m twenty-two. But in our family we hold our own well—that is, mother does.”

These discoveries as to age seemed to give both the liveliest satisfaction. Said he: “You look younger—and talk younger.”

“That’s because I don’t make pretenses. People think that anyone who is still frank and simple must be very young—and very foolish.... I’ve been out four years. Do I seem ignorant and uninteresting to you?”

“No—very frank—naïve.”

She smiled, flushed, glanced shyly at him. “Do you know, I feel I know you better than I ever knew any man in my life—even my brothers!”

“Everyone says I’m easy to get acquainted with,” said he, practical and unappreciative.

She looked disappointed, but persisted. “I feel[15] freer to talk with you. I’d tell you—anything—the things I think, but never dare say.”

[15]

“There aren’t any such things,” said he, hastening away from the personal. “Anything one really thinks one can’t help saying.”

“Oh, that isn’t a bit true,” cried she. “I think lots of things I don’t dare say, just as I want to do lots of things I don’t dare do.”

“You imagine you think them, you imagine you want to do them,” he assured her. “But really, what you say and do—that is your real self.”

She sighed. “I hate to believe so.”

“Yes. It is unpleasant to give up the flattering notion that our grand dreams are our real selves, and that our mean little schemes and actions are just accidental—or devil—or somebody else besides self.”

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