Mrs. took the next question out of her husband's mouth: "Come,
come, my dear! you must know how old you are."

"Yes; I do know that. I'm eighteen."

"And how old is Helena?"

"Helena's eighteen."

Mrs. turned round to Mr.: "Do you hear that?"

Mr. said: "I shall write to her father, and ask what it means."

I said: "Papa will only tell you what he told us--years ago."

"What did your father say?"

"He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to
divide the product between us. It's so long since, I don't
remember what the product was then. But I'll tell you what the
product is now. Our two ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six
is eighteen. I get one half, and Helena gets the other. When we
ask what it means, and when friends ask what it means, papa has
got the same answer for everybody, 'I have my reasons.' That's
all he says--and that's all I say."

I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry.
He left off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by
my surname. He said: "Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not