“I am thirty, but I feel forty.”
“Thirty,” repeated May, with a little laugh. “Just ten years older than I am!”
“Oh, that decade, what I would give to forget it,” said John Temple, half-seriously. “To go back to my lost youth; to be like you—”
May shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“But I shall get old, too,” she smiled.
“And cease to be the Mayflower,” said John, with a genuine sigh. “Ah, that is very sad.”
Again May Churchill laughed. She stood there a picture of youth and beauty; a girl in the prime of her girlhood, and conscious perhaps that John Temple’s gray eyes were fixed admiringly on her lovely face.
“Yes,” he repeated, “that will really be very sad. Age makes no matter to ordinary-looking people, you know, but to a flower—”
“When shall I begin to wither?” asked May, archly.