“I shall be flattered.” “Then—forty?” Winthrop sighed loudly. “Too much? Wait! Thirty—thirty-seven?” “Thirty-eight.” “Is that very old? I shall be eighteen in a few days.” “Really? Then, you see, I have already lived twice as long as you have.” “Yes,” Holly nodded, thoughtfully. “Do you know, I don’t think I want to live to be real, real old; I think I’d rather die before—before that.” “And what do you call real, real old?” asked Winthrop. [130] [130] “Oh, I don’t know; fifty, I reckon.” “Then I have twelve years longer to live,” said Winthrop, gravely. Holly turned a pair of startled eyes upon him. “No, no! It’s different with you; you’re a man.” “Oh, that makes a difference?” “Lots! Men can do heaps of things, great, big things, after they’re old, but a woman——” She paused and shrugged her shoulders in a funny, exaggerated way that Winthrop thought charming. “What is there for a woman when she’s that old?” “Much,” answered Winthrop, gravely, “if she has been a wise woman. There should be her children to love and to love her, and if she has married the right man there will be that love, too, in the afternoon of her life.” “Children,” murmured Holly. “Yes, that would be nice; but they wouldn’t
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