“I don’t take much. Age shrinks.” She moved her chair, smiling.
“Don’t talk about age. It’s an unpleasant subject,” Mrs Maxwell complained, dropping into a chair. “And as for you, you are younger than any of us. It’s only people of the same standing who would call you old. Don’t you know? Elderly people always talk about their contemporaries as ‘old Mr Smith,’ ‘old Mr Jones.’ It’s their way of pretending to be still young.”
“Well, I won’t pretend,” said Mrs Brodrick. “But I know the temptation so well, that I very often go away and read my Rabbi Ben Ezra. I was noticing to-day that my shadow looked old, and that’s a great step.”
“Oh, granny, nonsense!”
“And, after all, it is always interesting to reach new experiences. For instance, I have just found out that one is less seldom disappointed, but sooner discouraged.”
She was keeping the talk upon herself only because she was afraid of its drifting elsewhere; but Mrs Maxwell had a purpose.
“Where is Sylvia?” she asked suddenly.
“Isn’t she picking irises in the garden behind me?”
“I see. Where’s Teresa?”
“Sketching.”