Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. And would you mind hurrying a little. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. Perhaps marriage hurt.
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