myself! One wants a woman," he argued—but still, in his prolonged tour, quite without his scowl—"to know for one, to know with one. That's what you do now," he candidly put to her.
It made her again gape. "Do you mean you want to marry me?"
He was so full of what he did mean, however, that he failed even to notice it. "She doesn't in the least know, for instance, how old I am."
"That's because you're so young!"
"Ah, there you are!"—and he turned off afresh and as if almost in disgust. It left her visibly perplexed—though even the perplexed Cornelia was still the exceedingly pointed; but he had come to her aid after another turn. "Remember, please, that I'm pretty well as old as you."
She had all her point at least, while she bridled and blinked, for this. "You're exactly a year and ten months older."
It checked him there for delight. "You remember my birthday?"
She twinkled indeed like some far-off light of home. "I remember everyone's. It's a little way I've always had—and that I've never lost."
He looked at her accomplishment, across the room, as at some striking, some charming phenomenon. "Well, that's the sort of thing I want!" All the ripe candour of his eyes confirmed it.
What could she do therefore, she seemed to ask him, but repeat her question of a moment before?—
