It's really a wonderful house in
Italy, on Como. Casa Felice is the name of it. I know it well."
"Casa Felice. How delicious! But is it the place for Sir Donald?"
"Why not?"
"For an old, tired man. Casa Felice. Won't the name seem an irony to him
when he's there?"
"You think an old man can't be happy anywhere?"
"I can't imagine being happy old."
"Why not?"
"Oh!"--she lowered her voice--"if you want to know, look at Mrs. Ulford."
"Your husk theory again. A question of looks. But you will grow old
gracefully--some day in the far future."
"I don't think I shall grow old at all."
"Then--?"
"I think I shall die before that comes--say at forty-five. I couldn't
live with wrinkles all over my face. No, Robin, I couldn't. And--look at
Mrs. Ulford!--perhaps an ear-trumpet set with opals."
"What do the wrinkles matter? But some day you'll find I'm right. You'll
tell me so. You'll acknowledge that your charm comes from within, and has
survived the mutilation of the husk."
"Mutilation! What a hideous sound that word has. Why don't all mutilated
people commit suicide at once? I should. Is Sir Donald going to live in
his happy house?"
"Naturally. He'll be there this August. He's invited Rupert Carey to stay
there with him."
"And you?"
"Not yet."
"I suppose he will. Everybody always asks you everywhere. Diplomacy is so
universally--"
She broke off. Far away, at the end of the gallery, she had caught sight
of Miss Schley coming in with her husband.
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