"I don't know, Billy. Only where things don't bore me; where they are worth while."
"But they always get to bore us—" he paused and she took him up.
"You mean I'm bored because I am an old woman. I should say so, too, but then I look at that other woman and I know it isn't so. No, Billy, I took the wrong road."
Billy looked at her a long time searchingly.
"Well," he said at last, "what can we do about it? I mean, besides writing fake memoirs and then going ag'in our best friends when they beg us to own up?"
She put the question by, as if it could not possibly be considered, and yet as if it made another merry chapter to her jest. Billy had gathered his consolatory forces for another leap.
"Florrie," said he, "come back to London with me."
"My dear child!"
"You marry me, Florrie. I asked you fifty odd years ago. I could give you a good sober sort of establishment, a salon of a sort. I know everybody in arts and letters. Come on, Florrie."
Fire was in the old lady's eye. She rose and made him a pretty courtesy.