Myra Ingleby rose and stood with the slanting rays of the sun full in her eyes, her arms stretched over her head. The artist noted every graceful line of her willowy figure.
"Ah, bah!" she yawned. "It is so perfect out here, and I must go in to my maid. Jane, be advised in time. Do not ever begin facial massage. You become a slave to it, and it takes up hours of your day. Look at me."
They were both looking already. Myra was worth looking at.
"For ordinary dressing purposes, I need not have gone in until seven; and now I must lose this last, perfect hour."
"What happens?" asked Jane. "I know nothing of the process."
"I can't go into details," replied Lady Ingleby, "but you know how sweet I have looked all day? Well, if I did not go to my maid now, I should look less sweet by the end of dinner, and at the close of the evening I should appear ten years older."
"You would always look sweet," said Jane, with frank sincerity; "and why mind looking the age you are?"
"My dear, 'a man is as old as he feels; a woman is as old as she looks,'" quoted Myra.
"I FEEL just seven," said Garth.
"And you LOOK seventeen," laughed Myra.