"My son," she said, in her most matronly manner, "kindly remember that a woman past her first youth always prefers to sit with her back toward the light."
"I'm older than you are," he reminded her, "so don't be patronising."
"In years only," she returned. "In worldly wisdom and experience and all the things that count, I'm almost as old as your mother is. Sometimes," she added, bitterly, "I feel as though I were a thousand."
A shadow crossed his face, but, as his figure loomed darkly against the moon, Edith did not see it. The caressing glamour of the light revealed the sad sweetness of her mouth, but presently her lips curved upward in a forced smile.
"Why is it?" she asked, "that moonlight makes one think?"
"I didn't know it did," he replied. "I thought it was supposed to have quite the opposite effect."
"It doesn't with me. In the sun, I'm sane, and have control of myself, but nights like this drive me almost mad sometimes."
"Why?" he asked gently, leaning toward her.
"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "There's so much I might have that I haven't." Then she added, suddenly: "What did you think of my husband's picture?"
Edith's Husband