“I don’t think I shall grow old at all.”
“Then—?”
“I think I shall die before that comes—say at forty-five. I couldn’t live with wrinkles all over my face. No, Robin, I couldn’t. And—look at Mrs. Ulford!—perhaps an ear-trumpet set with opals.”
“What do the wrinkles matter? But some day you’ll find I’m right. You’ll tell me so. You’ll acknowledge that your charm comes from within, and has survived the mutilation of the husk.”
“Mutilation! What a hideous sound that word has. Why don’t all mutilated people commit suicide at once? I should. Is Sir Donald going to live in his happy house?”
“Naturally. He’ll be there this August. He’s invited Rupert Carey to stay there with him.”
“And you?”
“Not yet.”
“I suppose he will. Everybody always asks you everywhere. Diplomacy is so universally—”
She broke off. Far away, at the end of the gallery, she had caught sight of Miss Schley coming in with her husband. They sat down at a table near the door. Robin Pierce followed her eyes and understood her silence.