"He ought to be used to it by this time. No, I don't believe it is that. I believe it is mother."
"What do you mean—'mother'?"
"Oh, nothing. Only"—Jemima severely bit off a thread—"I do wish mother'd grow wrinkled or—or fat, or something, like other people's mothers."
"Why, Jemmy Kildare!" cried the other, shocked. "How can you say such a thing? Mother's the most beautiful person in the world!"
"Exactly. If I'm not mistaken, Philip thinks so too."
"Well, why shouldn't he? That's nothing to be solemn about."
The other smiled an enigmatical smile.
"Stop looking like that horrid Mona Lisa. You mean—" Jacqueline stared, then shouted with laughter. "Blossom, you're too silly! Of course mother's the most beautiful person in the world, but after all she is—mother! She's old."
"Remember Henry Esmond."
"Pooh! That's in a novel. Why, Philip might as well get up a romantic passion for—for the Sistine Madonna."