Lucy gave her little humorous shrug, inimitably slight, “O Henry, forgive me, I believe old age for me is all plain prose.”
He laughed his silvery old laugh, in pure amusement, “And that from you, who know nothing whatever about old age!”
“I! I know everything about old age!”
“Prove it!” he rallied, “prove it! Prove that you know one thing more about old age to-day than you did when you were twenty!”
Her face, still beautiful despite its subtlety of lines, grew strange, and her humorous lips delicately mocking, “No, I don’t believe I could—prove—that I know anything more about old age to-day—than I did when I was twenty!”
“There,” he cried gaily, “you admit it?”
“Admit what, my friend?”
“That you are still a girl!”
“Yet, a grandmother?”
“One can never somehow remember that,” his gaze upon her changed to puzzled thought.