She was leaning back and glancing anxiously about her.
“But why not?” asked Lady Holme. “What’s the matter with it?”
“Youth.”
“But surely—”
“The year’s too young. And at my age one feels very often as if the advantage of youth were an unfair advantage.”
“Dare I ask—?”
She checked herself, looking at her companion’s snow-white hair, which was arranged in such a way that it looked immensely thick under the big black hat she wore—a hat half grandmotherly and half coquettish, that certainly suited her to perfection.
“Spring—” she was beginning rather quickly; but Lady Cardington interrupted her.
“Fifty-eight,” she said.
She laughed anxiously and looked at Lady Holme.