"Make it fifty."
She knit her smooth forehead. "Because I wouldn't be pretty then?"
"Oh, you'd charm and attract men at seventy. But you wouldn't have such a—well, such an urgent temperament. That passes, usually."
"Bob! You beast!" But she laughed. "You're very much the medical man, aren't you?"
"It's my business in life."
"Well, the whole discussion is what you call an academic question, anyhow. If you and your hateful medical science are right, I'll never see thirty-eight, let alone forty. I don't feel thirty-seven. There's so much life in me. Too much, I suppose."
"No. Not too much."
"No more flutters for pretty Mona," she mused. "At least she's had her share. Do you think Ralph cares?"
"You're the one to know that."