It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. The rest was easy. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo. ” “I didn’t mind that little argument.
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