He leaned back against the upholstery and muttered words of contentment. “This is the life,” said Tom, and added glumly, “only when you get, it you’re too old to enjoy it.” Lynn said, laughing, “David Dwight isn’t too old—he isn’t old at all. You have such comic ideas about age, Tom. Anybody over thirty looks like Methuselah to you.” Tom digested this in an unhappy silence. She didn’t think Dwight old then. Well, hell’s bells, he wasn’t, of course. But too old for Lynn. Jennie shook out her black and white flounces. She looked very handsome, hair like daffodils, eyes like bluebells, Lynn’s old onyx and gold earrings swinging from her ears. She said, “We’re in for a large evening, I think.” Lynn wore white. The “too innocent” white, upon which Jennie had passed on the occasion of Dwight’s dinner. Jennie had grunted, observing her as, dressed and ready, she swung away from the mirror, “You need,”
