“She is—now. For she really did give up all in a moment. And she has never repented of what she did, as far as anyone knows. I think—”
She paused, looking thoughtful at the mirror.
“Yes?” said Craven gently.
“I think it’s rather fine to plunge into old age like that. You go on being young and beautiful till everyone marvels, and then one day—or night, perhaps—you look in the glass and you see the wrinkles as they are—”
“Does any woman ever do that?”
“She must have! And you say to yourself, ‘C’est fini!’ and you throw up the sponge. No more struggles for you! From one day to another you become an old woman. I think I shall do as Lady Sellingworth has done.”
“When?”
“When I’m—perhaps at fifty, yes, at fifty. No man really cares for a woman, as a woman wants him to care, after fifty.”
“I wonder,” said Craven.
She sent him a sharp, questioning glance.