"He's always teasing me with those reminiscences . . . They're ridiculous now."
"Why?"
"Because I'm old. Those memories are pretty enough when you are young . . . When you grow older, you let them sleep . . . in the dead, silent years. For, when you're old, they become ridiculous."
Her voice sounded hard. He was silent.
"Don't you think I'm right?" she asked.
"Perhaps," he said, very gently. "Perhaps you are right. But it is a pity."
"Why?" she forced herself to ask.
He gave a very deep sigh:
"Because it reminds us of all that we lose as we grow older . . . even the right to our memories."
"The right to our memories," she echoed almost under her breath. And, in a firmer voice, she repeated, severely, "Certainly. When we grow older, we lose our right . . . There are memories to which we lose our right as we grow old . . ."
"Tell me," he said, "is it hard for a woman to grow old?"
"I don't know," she answered, softly. "I believe that I shall grow old, that I am growing old as it is, without finding it hard."
"But you're not old," he said.
"I am forty-three," she replied, "and my son is fourteen."
