ou and I are too old to talk that sort of stuff now."

"Do you think I am so very old?" he asked her, standing before her
writing-table, as if inviting a serious judgment.

She glanced quickly over him. His moustache was white, his ivory-tinted
face scratched with fine lines about the eyes; he stooped at the
shoulders, and his chest had hollowed in. Yet she could have returned
his compliment and called him a beauty still. He was so to her. Every
line and movement of his body had a distinction all his own, and "What
a shame it is," she thought, "for that profile to crumble away before
it has been carved in marble."

"We are in the same boat," she answered him. "There are not five years
between us."

"Five years put us out of the same boat," he rejoined, "especially when
they are virtually fifteen. Deb, I know you think me an old man--don't
you?"

"What I think is that you are a sick man," she said kindly. "Are you,
Claud? You used to be so strong, for all your slenderness. What is the
matter with you?"

"Everything--nothing--only that I feel old--and that I haven't been
used to feeling old--and that it's so--so loathsome--"

"I'm sure it is," she laughed, rallying him. "I can understand your
being sick, if you have come to that. But why do you let yourself? Why
do you think about it? Why do you own to it--in that abject way? I
never do. I'm determined not to be an old woman--until I am obliged.
And I don't paint, either," she added, "and my hair is my own."

He seemed to study her cheek and her hair. She coloured up, dipped her
pen, and looked at her unfinished letter. He wandered off a step or
two, and returned.

"Do you know this thing of Hamerton's?" he inquired, in a casual way,
extending the volume he held.

She took it, laying down her pen. A considerable literary discussion
ensued, during which he fetched more books from the shelves to show
her. It began to appear that he meant to spend the whole morning with
her, possibly taking it for granted that it was her desire to have him.
That idea, if he entertained it, must be corrected at once. She resumed
her pen with a business-like air.

"Deb," said he then, "do you mind if I read here for a little while? I
won't disturb you. It's so nice and quiet--away from those chattering
women--"

"Oh, certainly!" she politely acquiesced. "But don't you think they'll
want you, with all the other men away? Now's your opportunity to be
made much of."

"I don't ca