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The woman looked up quickly. She had noticed the little scene in the dining-room.

“Age has nothing to do with the matter,” she replied quietly. “There is no reason why you should not enjoy yourself enormously. The dullest person I know is a young man of twenty-three, and one of the gayest is an aunt of mine who is seventy-five. Happiness is a gift of the gods, and is bestowed by them irrespective of age.”

“Think so?” said Miss Mason.

“I am sure of it.”

Again there was a silence. Then, quite suddenly, Miss Mason began to tell the woman the story of her life. She told it badly. For the last forty years at least Miss Mason had talked little. Miss Stanhope had never cared to encourage conversation other than her own. A daily and minute recital of her own imaginary ailments had sufficed her. That had been a subject which had never palled.

“And the summary of it all is,” ended Miss Mason, “that my life has been utterly narrow.” She stopped and looked at the woman. There was something half humorous, half pathetic, in the expression in her eyes.