“How old are you?” said Oliver with a beautiful hardness upon his face.

“Twenty-four years of age,” said Shenandoah. He knew very well that the question was an affront, but he did not want to quarrel with Oliver.

“You are just an infant,” said Oliver, determined to hurt Shenandoah’s feelings, “you have not lived long enough.” Thus, with this sentence, he declared that Shenandoah did not know what he was saying and he won the argument.

“How old are you?” said Shenandoah with awkward constraint. His determination not to be angry had quickly broken down.

“You know how old I am, thirty-four,” said Oliver in fury, “I’ve told you a dozen times.”

“Well for that matter,” said Shenandoah, “you know how old I am, but I was too polite to mention the fact.” He knew that his remark was self-righteous an instant too late to halt himself.

“O never mind,” said Oliver, for his mind had shifted to the much more serious irritation he felt because he was thirty-four years of age, a thought which became most urgent and most productive of feelings of anxiety and despair on a birthday or on New Year’s Eve.