"Myra, why don't you sing again?"
"For you, to-night?"
"I mean professionally," he blurted out.
She drifted across the room to a shadowy corner.
"I don't know," she said rather flatly, bending over a bowl of white roses. "I suppose I don't feel like it any more. It's hard to take things up again."
He fingered his book; then, as if despite himself, he said;
"I'm afraid, dear, that we're letting ourselves grow old."
She swung sharply about, catching her breath.
"You mean I am?"
"Both of us." He was cautious, tender even, but she was not deceived.
It was almost a relief that he had spoken.