“I feel,” she paused, meeting his glance roguishly, “I feel old enough to be your mother, and really I’m one year younger than you.”
“One year and three months.”
“You looked me up?”
“I did.”
She inferred, possibly, more than was strictly warrantable. Suddenly the dressing gong boomed out. Margot got up. Lionel protested:
“You don’t take half an hour to shove on a frock, do you?”
“Sometimes. I am wearing a new frock to-night. I hope you will like it.”
“You must spend a lot on your clothes.”
“I do. Why not? I have money to burn. A tout à l’heure.”
She waved her hand and departed.