“They do keep young,” said Richard More thoughtfully.
She turned on him almost fiercely. “It isn’t young! It’s—massage! I’ve got so I just seem to hate that look—all puffed out and smooth and softish like putty. It’s a kind of chromo-face,” she said indignantly—“a just-as-good face, you know!”
Her father laughed out.
She nodded savagely. “That’s the way I feel, and I didn’t know—till to-day.” Her voice grew gentle.
“When I get old I’m going to have wrinkles—like mother!”
“There’s one on your nose, now—where you’re turning it up,” said Richard.
“I don’t care.... Now mother’s wrinkles”—she leaned forward and touched one lightly with her finger—“mother’s wrinkles are—beautiful!”
“You flatter me!” said Eleanor, with a little serene smile mocking the light in her face.
“There—! That’s it! Do you see?” She motioned to her father. “That little line that makes fun of you!—I’m going to have one just like that!” She leaned back and looked at the wrinkle with artistic approval.
Suddenly she jumped up and came and put her arms around her mother’s neck.