“No, my dear, you don’t grasp it. They were already wonderfully old when they married. Being old keeps you young is the only explanation I can think of. We must get old: otherwise we shall die instead of marrying.”
“And what was the age of the babies who were born on this remarkable day?” asked Colin.
“How can you ask? Babies are the oldest things in the world. You can’t compute their age, it is infinite: they are age itself. But by degrees, through experience, they get young. We come into the world all red and wrinkled, and we go out all white and wrinkled. We’ve been bled, that’s all.”
All the time, Violet felt, she was talking at Colin. These sprightly trifles, unreal as stage-dialogue, were but the steam that rose over what lay below. Whether she addressed Ronald or his wife or Violet herself, the steam blew always towards Colin. She talked impartially to one or another, just as she looked impartially at one or another, so that out of that very impartiality she might look at Colin, too. But on him her hovering glance settled for a moment. A woman always did that if she was in love with a man. She talked here and there, she glanced here and there, in order to make it natural that she should glance everywhere. But when she came to the face that she sought, she hovered no longer, but, just for a moment, she settled.
As certainly Violet knew that Colin was not in the least in love with her: he had never spoken a truer word than when he had told her that. He was amused with her, he looked long and very openly at her: he did not disguise his admiration. But he had no secret message for her, as she for him.... Lady Yardley’s voice broke in: she had been perfectly silent throughout dinner.
“Why is Hester not here, Colin?” she said. “Has this lady who has been amusing us all come to live here instead of Hester?”
Colin nodded to Violet, who rose.
“No, Granny darling,” he said. “This lady has only come to live with us till Monday, unless you can persuade her to stop. Now it’ll be time for your whist in ten minutes. Go on with Violet.”
Colin took a delicate pleasure that night in not allowing Uncle Ronald to drink more than one glass of port. He had told Violet that he would make him tipsy every night till she did as she was told and informed her father that he was not to regard Stanier as his home any longer; now, since she had been obedient, he would see that Uncle Ronald was lamentably sober. He could play whist to-night in fact, and Violet and her mother must make up the table for old Lady Yardley. This left him and Pamela free, and presently he strolled out with her on the terrace.
“It was delightful of you to propose yourself,” he said, “though, upon my word, I felt it was very selfish of me to let you come. How can I prevent your having a fearfully dull Sunday with nobody here? You’ve missed Aunt Hester: she adds a little spice sometimes to the plain family pudding.”