“They have gone over to this wonderful Convalescent Home that Macheson is building in the hills,” he remarked. “I am not sure that I consider it good manners to leave us to entertain one another.”
“I am not sure,” she said, “that it is proper. Wilhelmina should have considered that we are her only guests.”
She sat down in the window-sill and leaned back against the corner. She had slept well, and she was not afraid of the sunshine—blue, too, was her most becoming colour. He looked at her admiringly.
“You are really looking very well this morning,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered. “I was expecting that.”
“I wonder,” he said, “how you others discover the secret of eternal youth. You and Macheson and Wilhelmina all look younger than you did last year. I seem to be getting older all by myself.”
She looked at him critically. There were certainly more lines about his face and the suspicion of crow’s-feet about his tired eyes.
“Age,” she said, “is simply a matter of volition. You wear yourself out fretting for the impossible!”
“One has one’s desires,” he murmured.