“But why not?” asked Lady Holme. “What’s the matter with it?” “Youth.” “But surely--” “The year’s too young. And at my age one feels very often as if the advantage of youth were an unfair advantage.” “Dare I ask--?” She checked herself, looking at her companion’s snow-white hair, which was arranged in such a way that it looked immensely thick under the big black hat she wore--a hat half grandmotherly and half coquettish, that certainly suited her to perfection. “Spring--” she was beginning rather quickly; but Lady Cardington interrupted her. “Fifty-eight,” she said. She laughed anxiously and looked at Lady Holme. “Didn’t you think I was older?” “I don’t know that I ever thought about it,” replied Lady Holme, with the rather careless frankness she often used towards women. “Of course not. Why should you, or anyone? When a woman’s once over fifty it really doesn’t matter much whether she’s fifty-one or seventy-one. Does it?” Lady Holme thought for a moment. Then she said: “I really don’t know. You see, I’m not a man.” Lady Cardington’s forehead puckered and her mouth drooped piteously. “A woman’s real life is very short,” she said. “But her desire for real life can last very long--her silly, useless desire.” “But if her looks remain?” “They don’t.” “You think it is a question of looks?” “Do you think it is?” asked Lady Cardington. “But how can you know anything about it, at your age, and with your appearance?” “I suppose we all have our different opinions as to what men are and what men want,” Lady Holme said, more thoughtfully than usual. “Men! Men!” Lady Cardington exclaimed, with a touch of irritation unusual in her. “Why should we women do, and be, everything for men?” “I don’t know, but we do and we are. There are some men, though, who think it isn’t a question of looks, or think they think so.” “Who?” said Lady Cardington, quickly. “Oh, there are some,” answered Lady Holme, evasively, “who believe in mental charm more than in physical charm, or say they do. And mental charm doesn’t age so obviously as physical--as the body does, I suppose. Perhaps we ought to pin our faith to it. What do you think of Miss Schley?” Lady Cardington glanced at her with a kind of depressed curiosity. “She pins her faith to the other thing,” she said. “Yes.” “She’s pretty. Do you know she reminds me faintly of you.” Lady Holme felt acute irritation at this remark, but she only said: “Does she?” “Something in her colouring. I’m sure she’s a man’s woman, but I can’t say I found her interesting.” “Men’s women seldom are interesting to us. They don’t care to be,” said Lady Holme. Suddenly she thought that possibly between Pimpernel Schley and herself there were resemblances unconnected with colouring. “I suppose not. But still--ah, here’s Cadogan Square!” She kissed Lady Holme lightly on the cheek.