He turned and looked at her. She flushed up like a girl.

"Thank you. That's a very pleasing compliment, although I know you
cannot mean it."

"I'd like not to mean it. I'd like to have found you as old as I am
myself."

"How cruel of you! Not that you are such a Methuselah as you would try
to make out--"

"There are not five years between us," he broke in sharply.

"I know."

Back went memory in a flash to a succession of childish birthdays,
their love-tokens and festive celebrations. His was in November, and
his "party" was usually a picnic. Hers was in May, and was "kept" in
the house, with big fires and a tea-table crowned with a three-tiered
iced cake, and blind-man's-buff and turn-the-trencher in the evening.
She recalled wild contests with an imperious little boy, who could
never conquer her except by stooping to it; and the self-conscious
silliness of their behaviour to each other when they grew from children
into boy and girl.

"Not much fun in birthdays now, Deb." He seemed to comment on her
thoughts.

"Oh, well!" she sighed vaguely.