"Sure," he cried. "I'm fixing my tie."
Ursula, in a gown that displayed the last possible—many of the homelier women said impossible—inch of her beautiful shoulders, came strolling sinuously in and seated herself on the arm of the divan. She watched him, in his evening shirt, as he with much struggling did his tie. "How young you do look, Fred!" said she. "Especially in just that much clothes. Not a day over thirty."
"I'm not exactly a nonogenarian," retorted he.
"But usually your face—in spite of its smoothness and no wrinkles—has a kind of an old young—or do I mean young old?—look. You've led such a serious life."
"Um. That's the devil of it."
"You're looking particularly young to-night."
"Same to you, Urse."
"No, I'm not bad for thirty-four. People half believe me when I say I'm twenty-nine." She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders. "I've still got my skin."
"And a mighty good one it is. Best I ever saw—except one."
She reflected a moment, then smiled. "I know it isn't Josephine's. Hers is good but not notable. Eyes and teeth are her strongholds. I suppose it's—the other lady's."