Take Mr. Diggs, for instance; he thinks I am only
twenty-six. He says it's a crime for a man of his age--he's thirty-
seven--to be making eyes at a soft young thing like me. He knows I'm
only twenty-six, but what he don't know is that I was born nearly ten
years before he even starts to counting. Now, in a very few years you
will be twenty. Well, by that time she will be only eight years older
than you are. You see, women don't put on years as rapidly as men.
It's a peculiar trick of nature. I don't suppose there is another
living creature in all God's dominion that lives as long as a woman
does before it can get past thirty. Take Miss Stokes, the nurse, for
instance. She's been nearly nine years going from twenty-seven to
twenty-nine. So there you are. You just keep on growing up, Freddie--
you needn't hurry, either--putting on a year every twelve months, and
before you know it you'll be six months older than Miss Fairweather.
Then--"
"Yes, but how about this big Flanders?" protested Frederick. "He's
already grown-up and--"
"Nothing to it," said Melissa, "He hasn't got any money.
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