She touched her cheeks mechanically with her fingertips.
"Had I? That was because I was so excited at the prospect of our lovely evening."
"Dear old girl! So it's been a lovely evening?"
"Perfect. I wish it was beginning all over again," she answered hollowly, wishing that she meant what she said.
What was the matter with her? Why did she feel so grey, so plain, so sparkless?
"I ought to rouge a little," she said. "Everyone else does."
He protested quickly and strongly.
"But," she said, "if I'm tired? If I'm a fright? What then?"
"I shouldn't like my wife to make up."
"But, Osborn, I want you to think I'm pretty, well turned out, smart, like all the other women here."