Forty-five--thirty--he is thirty.

Take twenty-five from thirty and five remain.

Why, Rhoda, he would have been--" They looked at each other, but neither said: "He would have been five years old." Miss Quincey seemed quite prostrated by the result of her calculations.
To everything that Rhoda could urge to soothe her she answered steadily: "You do not know him as I do." The voice was not Miss Quincey's voice; it was the monotonous, melancholy voice of the Fixed Idea.
Her knowledge of him.

After all, nothing could take from her the exquisite privacy of that possession.
* * * * * "_Eros anikate machan_," said Rhoda.
Miss Quincey was gone and the Classical Mistress was in school again, coaching a backward student through the "Antigone." "Oh Love, unconquered in fight.

Love who--Love who fliest, who fliest about among things," said the student.