"Would you, for practice, permit me first to guess your age, Miss Southerland ?" "Why--yes--if you think that might help you to guess hers." So he leaned back in his armchair and considered her a very long time--having a respectable excuse to do so.

Twenty times he forgot he was looking at her for any purpose except that of disinterested delight, and twenty times he remembered with a guilty wince that it was a matter of business.
"Perhaps I had better tell you," she suggested, her color rising a little under his scrutiny.
"Is it eighteen?
Just _her_ age!" "Twenty-one, Mr.Gatewood--and you _said_ you didn't know her age." "I have just remembered that I _thought_ it might be eighteen; but I dare say I was shy three years in her case, too.

You may put it down at twenty-one." For the slightest fraction of a second the brown eyes rested on his, the pencil hovered in hesitation.

Then the eyes fell, and the moving fingers wrote.
"Did you write 'twenty-one' ?" he inquired carelessly.
"I did not, Mr.Gatewood." "What did you write ?" "I wrote: 'He doesn't appear to know much about her age.'" "But I _do_ know--" "You said--" They looked at one another earnestly.
"The next question," she continued with composure, "is: 'Date and place of birth ?' Can you answer any part of _that_ question ?" "I trust I may be able to--some day.

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