Severance.
"_Wha-a-at!_"
"My dear Oliver, whatever my failings may be, I have some penetration. Mr.
Billett was garrulous at times, I fear--young men are so apt to be with
older women. Oh _no_--he was beautifully sure that he was not betraying
himself--the dear ostrich. And that letter--really that was clumsy of both
of you, Oliver--when I could see the handwriting--all modern and well-bred
girls seem to write the same curly kind of hand somehow--and then Sargent's
address in embossed blue letters on the back. And I _couldn't_ have
suspected him of carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Piper!" and Oliver was
forced to smile at her tinkle of laughter. Then she grew a little earnest.
"I don't suppose it was--Mr. Billett--I wanted so--exactly," she mused. "It
was more--Mr. Billett's age--Mr. Billett's undeniable freshness--if you
see. I'm not quite a Kipling vampire--no--a vampire that wants to crunch
the bones--or do vampires crunch bones? I believe they only act like babies
with bottles--nasty of them, isn't it?--But one gets to a definite age--and
Sargent's a dear but he has all the defects of a husband--and things begin
slipping away, slipping away--"
She made a motion of sifting between her hands, letting fall light grains
of a precious substance that the hands were no longer young enough to keep.
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