"I have never known that feeling," she confessed, "and I live in the 'hard, harsh' city."
"Oh, that is because you have never known what it meant not to have wisdom," he retorted. "Tell me about everybody," he went on. "Your husband, he is well, of course, and distressfully rich. I heard of him in New York. And Page, our little, solemn Minerva of Dresden china?"
"Oh, yes, Page is well, but you will hardly recognise her; such a young lady nowadays."
"And Mr. Court, 'Landry'? I remember he always impressed me as though he had just had his hair cut; and the Cresslers, and Mrs. Wessels, and—"
"All well. Mrs. Cressler will be delighted to hear you are back. Yes, everybody is well."
"And, last of all, Mrs. Jadwin? But I needn't ask; I can see how well and happy you are."
"And Mr. Corthell," she queried, "is also well and happy?"
"Mr. Corthell," he responded, "is very well, and—tolerably—happy, thank you. One has lost a few illusions, but has managed to keep enough to grow old on. One's latter days are provided for."
"I shouldn't imagine," she told him, "that one lost illusions in Tuscan gardens."
"Quite right," he hastened to reply, smiling cheerfully. "One lost no illusions in Tuscany. One went there to cherish the few that yet remained. But," he added, without change of manner, "one begins to believe that even a lost illusion can be very beautiful sometimes—even in Chicago."