“At the age of forty-two it requires a good deal of search,” said Edith.
“You are not forty-two. People don’t have any age until they cease to matter. You matter immensely. Why, supposing I were to go about London saying you were forty-two, people would say that I must be fifty! No woman is any age until people cease to care about her.”
Edith shook her head.
“Oh, Peggy, if one suffers, then certain things become unrecapturable! One begins some day to acquiesce in one’s limitations. When one is really young everything is possible; when one is old most things are inconceivable.”
“Now you are talking like Andrew Robb,” remarked Peggy.
“Of course, because I am. One’s age is measured by what one expects from life. And to be quite candid, dear, I expect very little. I hope on my own account to continue being moderately agreeable, and quite patient, and quite pleased that other people should enjoy themselves. But as for the heart-beat, the long breath—why, that is finished.”
“That is the ridiculous heresy that women only love once,” said Peggy. “I have known heaps of women who have loved heaps of times. They have told me so themselves.”
“Go to bed, Peggy, because you are getting flippant. You don’t understand. Pleasures? Good gracious, yes, I hope to have lots of them. I shall go mad with pleasure if Andrew Robb proves successful; I shall look forward even for a whole year to seeing Mr. Grainger play Lohengrin, just as for a whole year I shall look forward to seeing whether the Delphiniums you sent me will do well at Mannington. I shall——”
“Oh, darling, you shall shut up!” said Peggy decisively. “You may call me flippant, but you are cynical, whether I call it you or not, when you speak of expecting nothing more from life. And I would sooner be anything than cynical—even a dentist. Where will you breakfast? And why my Mr. Grainger? Answer categorically, please, and don’t argue, because it is late.”
Edith laughed.