At this Martin looked very grave, and he got down from the tree and walked to the end of the orchard full of thought. But when he turned there he found that she had stolen after him, and was standing near him hanging her head, yet watching him with deep anxiety.
Jennifer: It is t-t-too old, isn't it?
Martin: Too old for what?
Jennifer: I—I—I don't know.
Martin: It is, of course, extremely old. There are things you will never be able to do again, because you are so old.
Jennifer sobbed.
Martin: You are too old to be rocked in a cradle. You are too old to write pothooks and hangers, and too old, alas, to steal pickles and jam when the house is abed. Yet there are still a few things you might do if—
Jennifer: Oh, if?
Martin: If you could find a friend as old as yourself, or even a little older, to help you.
Jennifer: But think how old h—h—h— the friend would have to be.