Although she never said a word about it to anyone, this sudden outburst
of intense bodily activity at her age presently began to tire, then
almost to exhaust her. The strain upon her was great, too great.
Whatever Rupert Louth did, he never turned a hair. But she was nearly
twenty years older than he was, and decidedly out of training. She
fought desperately against her physical fatigue, and showed a gay
face to the world. But a horrible conviction possessed her. She began
presently to feel certain that her effort to live up to Rupert Louth's
health and vigour was hastening the aging process in her body. By what
she was doing she was marring her chance of preserving into old age
the appearance of comparative youth. Sometimes at night, when all the
activities of the day were over and there was no prospect of seeing
Rupert again until, at earliest, the following morning, she felt
absolutely haggard with weariness of body--felt as she said to herself
with a shudder, like an old hag. But she could not give up, could not
rest, for Rupert expected of everyone who was not definitely laid on
the shelf inexhaustible energy, tireless vitality. His own perpetual
freshness was a marvel, and fascinated Lady Sellingworth. To be with him
was like being with eternal youth, and made her long for her own lost
youth with an ache of desperation. But to act being young is hideously
different from being actually young. She acted astonishingly well, but
she paid for every moment of the travesty, and Rupert never noticed,
never had the least suspicion of all she was going through on account of
him.

To him she was merely a magnificently hospitable pal of his father's,
who took a kindly interest in him. He found her capital company. He,
like everyone else, felt her easy fascination, enjoyed being with her.
But, like Rocheouart of the past days, he never thought of her as a