"Do you regret it?" I asked.
"No-o! He was too impulsive—too eager—and reckless. And so very youthful . . . I should never have been really happy with him." She hesitated; and then, with a little shrug of her shoulders, she astonished me by adding:
"I can't delude myself any longer, George. I'm an old woman—really old!"
What could I say? I looked at her more closely and, although she was sitting with her back to the light, I saw that she was indeed speaking the sorrowful truth. Even during the few weeks which had elapsed since her leaving Richmond, she had aged considerably. Little wrinkles were creeping back to their natural strongholds round the eyes and mouth. Her hair was losing its lustre; her voice its depth; her neck its roundness. When I had first entered the room I had been so surprised and disgusted at the news of Gran'pa's latest folly that I had not noticed the change in Sally. But now it was pathetically evident.
Youth was going—going—almost gone. . . .
"You're just tired and depressed," I said, at last, trying to lie, even to myself. "It will soon pass off, and then . . ."
"No, George! . . . It will get gradually worse—until I'm old again, and . . . back where I started. . . ."
"But . . . Gran'pa?" I stammered. "He's still young!"
"He's an exception," she answered, with astonishing calmness. "I felt it all along. That is why I hesitated so at the very first. It's not the glands which have made such a difference to him, but his faith—the sort of wonderful faith that moves mountains, George. He's been like that all his life—an American, through and through. Everything he put his hand to—and believed in—he accomplished. I'm sure that anything is possible if only one has real faith. . . ."
"I haven't got it!" she added, wistfully. "I've always been shrinking back from things—afraid of anything new. Perhaps that is why I never married. . . . When your grandfather came, after all those years, still full of fire . . . I was carried away. I tried, oh, so hard, to believe in him, and in myself. But I've found that it is too late to alter my disposition. I haven't the faith. I'm still shrinking—doubtful—timid. . . ."