"Very well, Miss Gilbert. I was about to observe, when you interrupted me, that, already, at your age, you're set up with a stock of A1 stories which will last you the rest of your life; you'll only be able to appreciate what that means when you arrive at years of discretion. When you've married--if you ever do marry; and a girl with your money is pretty nearly sure to find someone who'll have her--you'll be able to tell your grandchildren----" "My grandchildren!" "Or someone else's, it makes no odds--you'll be able to tell them tale after tale, and they'll love you for it; children always love grandmothers who tell them stories; and yours needn't be lies either, because they're such first-class ones in themselves that they'll need no embroidering. What an advantage that will be in your declining years you've no conception, or you'd be more truly grateful for what has lately happened to you than at present you are." "I think you're the most ridiculous person I ever met; and the rudest. Are all boys like you?" "Boys? Well! You're younger that I am." "I shouldn't have thought it possible that anyone could be that." "My dear Miss Gilbert, in knowledge of the world, compared to you, I'm a grandfather. You ought to treat me with respect." "Ought I? Do the other boys with whom you associate?" "Miss Gilbert, you misunderstand the situation. I am at the university; and so are most of the men of my acquaintance." "Is that so? I didn't know they took them so young." He looked at her as if he could have said a great deal; but he said nothing--he drew a long breath instead. Presently he began again to whistle. She bore it in silence for a second or two; then she asked innocently: "Do all the other boys you know make a noise like that, and call it whistling?" He looked at her again, but he attempted no reply; he continued to whistle. Presently Frances came towards them, down one of the side paths. Dorothy waited for her; Jim strolled on, whistling as he went. When she came to Dorothy, Frances glanced at his back, as he went whistling on. "Has Jim been entertaining you?" "Very much--more even than he meant." "Isn't he droll?" "Extremely--I never thought anyone could have been so droll." Frances surveyed her friend with doubt in her eye. "Have you and he been having a discussion?" "I don't know that it can be called a discussion; he's so droll. Frances, are all boys like Jim?" Frances looked round as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers; then said, in lowered tones, as if she were delivering herself of an announcement of the most mysterious and amazing significance: "Dorothy, I'm beginning to think that they are." "How odd! and at the convent we used to think that they were such heroes." "I'm inclined to think that they assume more heroic proportions when they're at a distance." "But when do they cease to be boys?" "I'm commencing to wonder. None of Jim's friends are as old as that." "Your cousin's not a boy."