And much, much older, Nora.
Nora.
Yes, perhaps a little older—not much—ever so little. [She suddenly checks herself; seriously.] Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am! Here I sit chattering on, and——Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive me!
Mrs. Linden.
What do you mean, Nora?
Nora.
[Softly.] Poor Christina! I forgot: you are a widow.
Mrs. Linden.
Yes; my husband died three years ago.
Nora.