She introduced them and they stood talking for a little, talking about anything, hospitals, Ireland, the weather. Then he went away.
"Who's that?" said Mary when he was gone.
"A man called Westcott, a friend of Henry's."
"I like him. What's he do?"
"He's a writer——"
"Oh, Lord!" Mary threw herself into a chair. "What a pity. He looks as though he were better than that."
"He's a dear old thing," said Millie. "Just a hundred and fifty years old."
"Which means," said Mary, "that he's been telling you how young you are."
"Aren't you clever?" said Millie admiringly.