"Oh, he has points in his favor. He has looks; a trim figure, even if
spare; well-squared shoulders; and manners with a breezy, original tang.
The kind of young fellow that people are likely enough to like."

"What kind of manners did he have for you?"

"Well, there you rather get me. He called me 'sir,' with a touch of
deference; yet somehow I felt as if I were standing too close to an
electric fan."

"Yes, even when they indulge a show of deference, they contrive to blow our
gray hairs about our wrinkled temples."

"Don't talk about gray hairs. You have none; and mine are not always seen
at first glance."

"Medora begins to tax me with a few. Don't you see any?"

"Not one. I concentrate on my own. Tush, you're only forty-seven."

"Or fifty-seven, or sixty-seven, or seventy-seven...." Foster adjusted his
green shade and attempted an easier disposition of his twisted limbs on the
couch. "Well, forty-seven, as you suggest,--as you insist. How old is this
young fellow?"

"Twenty-four or twenty-five."

"Well, they can make us seem either younger or older. That rests with
ourselves. It's all in how we take them, I expect."