Hilary.
"The discovery," I continued, "is that I'm growing middle-aged."
"You are middle-aged," said Dolly, spearing her hat with its long
pin.
I was, very naturally, nettled at this.
"So will you be soon," I retorted.
"Not soon," said Dolly.
"Some day," I insisted.
After a pause of about half a minute, Dolly said, "I suppose so."
"You will become," I pursued, idly drawing patterns with my
finger on the sundial, "wrinkled, rough, fat--and, perhaps,
good."
"You're very disagreeable today," said Dolly.
She rose and stood by me.
"What do the mottoes mean?" she asked.
There were two; I will not say they contradicted one another, but
they looked at life from different points of view.
"Pereunt et imputantur," I read.
"Well, what's that, Mr. Carter?"
"A trite, but offensive, assertion," said I, lighting a
cigarette.
"But what does it mean?" she asked, a pucker on her forehead.
"What does it matter?" said I. "Let's try the other."
"The other is longer."
"And better. Horas non numero nisi serenas."
"And what's that?"
I translated literally. Dolly clapped her hands, and her face
gleamed with smiles.
"I like that one," she cried.
"Stop!" said I imperatively. "You'll set it moving!"
"It's very sensible," said she.
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