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.