"Have some tea. You haven't touched any," said Mrs. Tennant.

"I'd rather have cold water, please," Kathleen replied.

She went to the sideboard, filled a glass, and drank it off.

"Mrs. Tennant," she said when she had finished, "what possessed you to
live in England? You had all the world to choose from. Why did you come
to a horrible place like this?"

"But I like it," said Mrs. Tennant.

"You don't look as if you did. I never saw such a worn-out poor body.
Are you awfully old?"

"You would think me so," replied Mrs. Tennant, with a smile; "but as a
matter of fact I am not forty yet."

"Not forty!" said Kathleen. "But forty's an awful age, isn't it? I mean,
you want crutches when you are forty, don't you?"

"Not as a rule, my dear. I trust when I am forty I shall not want a
crutch. I shall be forty in two years, and that by some people is
considered young."

"Then I suppose it is mending those horrid stockings that makes you so
old."

"Mending stockings doesn't help to keep you young, certainly."