"You _know_ I am," she said, and presented herself with a small tea cake. Into it she bit once; then raised her eyes, watching her sister manipulating the alcohol lamp. "Do you suppose," she said, "that we’ll ever have the slightest personal interest in these Rivett people?" "Probably not," said her sister. "What of it? I wonder whether that colonel is likely to figure as a guest." Diana shrugged again. "Figure! He seems to be all figure. I thought him rather odious." "Did you? He seemed anxious to be agreeable. Who is he, cousin Jim?" "I don’t know.... Perhaps I may have heard of him—a militia colonel of some kind, I don’t remember. He’s probably a decent sort; I rather like him." "I wonder," said Diana reflectively, "whether you are anything of a snob?" Edgerton reddened, then sat still looking at her. "I was going to resent that," he said after a moment, "but I can’t; because what you just said set me thinking." "Are you unaccustomed to thinking?" she asked too innocently; and he reddened again. "Stop tormenting him," said Silvette, pouring herself more tea. "You’re a tease, Diane." "You both seem a little in that way," he suggested; "you jeer at me and then look pained, and tell each other to stop." "We’re too intelligent," said Silvette calmly; "that’s the trouble with us; and when, by degrees, we add a little more experience to our intelligence we’ll be either exceedingly unpopular or—successfully married." "Why those terrible alternatives?" he asked, laughing. "Because the man who is able to endure us will probably be worth the bother of marrying—when we’ve finished dissecting him. We don’t know just how to dissect men yet, but we’re rapidly learning. It’s only a matter of practice and experience." He laughed again, and so did Silvette, but Diana scarcely smiled, lying back in her velvet armchair and watching Edgerton and her sister alternately with grave, incurious eyes. "How old are you, anyway?" he said, looking straight at her. "Twenty-seven," she answered calmly. "Don’t jump, please." "What!" he exclaimed incredulously. "I look about nineteen, don’t I?" "Certainly you do—about eighteen!" "Well, I am twenty-seven; Silvette is twenty-five. Don’t bother with compliments." "Good Lord! Are _you_ the elder?" "Tread lightly there," cautioned Silvette, amused, "or you’ll presently involve yourself with two indignant spinsters. You’ve behaved very cleverly. Let well enough alone." "If you hadn’t told me," he began, astonished, "I’d have taken Silvette for nineteen and you for eighteen. I—well, I simply can’t realize it." "How old may _you_ be, cousin?" inquired Silvette with a malicious sweetness impossible to describe. "I’m thirty-two," he said. "We thought you less," remarked Diana; then she ventured to glance at him, and the enchanting smile broke suddenly from her lips and eyes. "Don’t you know we _do_ like you, cousin James, or we wouldn’t torment you?" said Silvette, laughing.