and then drew them away. She gave rather a forced laugh.
"You're too young to be bothered about Bills," she said, "and too young for—for all sorts of other things, too. Run away; never mind me with my Bills and my wrinkles."
"Your wrinkles!"
"Oh, if not now, in a year or two; by the time you're ready to marry Elsa."
As she spoke she rose and stood facing me. A new sense of her beauty came over me; her beauty's tragedy, already before her eyes, was to me remote and impossible. Because it was not yet very near she exaggerated its nearness; because it was inevitable I turned away from it. Indeed, who could remember, seeing her then? Who save herself, as she looked on my youth?
"You'll soon be old and ugly?" I asked, laughing.
"Yes, soon; it will seem very soon to you."
"What's the moral?" said I.
She laughed uneasily, twisting the screen in her hands. For an instant she raised her eyes to mine, and as they dropped again she whispered:
"A short life and a merry one?"
My hand flew out to her again; she took it, and, after a laughing glance, curtseyed low over it, as though in formal farewell. I had not meant that, and laughed in my turn.
"I shan't be old—well, by to-morrow," she murmured, and glanced ostentatiously at the clock.
"May I come to-morrow?"
"I never invite you."
"Shall you be here?"
"It's not one of my receiving days."
