MRS. MORLAND. How can I forget it when you have been casting it up against me all our married life?
MR. MORLAND (not without curiosity). Fanny and I are seventy-three; you are a bit younger, George, I think?
MR. AMY. Oh yes, oh dear, yes.
MR. MORLAND. You never say precisely what your age is.
MR. AMY. I am in the late sixties. I am sure I have told you that before.
MR. MORLAND. It seems to me you have been in the sixties longer than it is usual to be in them.
MRS. MORLAND (with her needles). James!
MR. MORLAND. No offence, George, I was only going to say that at seventy-three I certainly don’t feel my age. How do you feel, George, at—at sixty-six? (More loudly, as if MR. AMY were a little deaf.) Do you feel your sixty-six years?
MR. AMY (testily). I am more than sixty-six. But I certainly don’t feel my age. It was only last winter that I learned to skate.
MR. MORLAND. I still go out with the hounds. You forgot to come last time, George.