She looked at him then, and her grey eyes were so full of amusement that, incredulous as he usually was as to other people's statements, he knew that she was speaking the truth.
"Then why the devil don't you do something to it?" he demanded.
She laughed. "I couldn't be bothered. And
it might turn green, or something. I don't mind it. It began when I was twenty-three."
"I don't mind it either," Sir Langham declared magnanimously; "but it's misleading."
"I'm sorry," she said demurely. "I wouldn't mislead anyone for the world."
"Now, what age should you think I am? But I suppose you know—that's the worst of being a public character; when one gets nearly a column in Who's Who, everybody knows all about one. That's the penalty of celebrity."
"Do you mind people knowing your age?"
"Not I! Nor anything else about me. I've never done anything to be ashamed of. Quite the other way, I can assure you."
"How pleasant that must be," she said quietly.