Empress graciously came up to me. 'Fancy,' said she; 'fancy, my dear Madame Dumaresq, I did not recognise you this morning. It is such an age since you were here; and oh! do permit me to congratulate you on the exquisite costume you wore.'"
The story made a distinct impression. The medical woman at the end of the table, who had an American's interest in high life, stopped short in a thrilling narrative of an amputation, and listened with all her ears.
"The Empress was a very lovely woman, but I believe she was not very young when she married," said the elder Miss Semaphore reflectively.
"Oh, dear no! Eight or nine-and-twenty at least. Some people said two-and-thirty."
"What matter does that make?" interposed the polite Mr. Dumaresq. "A handsome woman is only the age she looks."
Miss Semaphore sighed. She had carefully examined her face before dinner and discovered a new wrinkle. It was borne in on her that she scarcely looked as young as she felt, but she made an effort to seem as if eight-and-twenty, or, at most, two-and-thirty, was still before her.
"It must be dreadful to grow old," said Mrs. Whitley affectedly.
