Page:Later Life (1919).djvu/59

Rh "So, when you're old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age."

She laughed:

"What a calculation! No, you're older. But age doesn't go by years."

"No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?"

"No."

"A motor-car."

She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:

"A motor-car?"

"Wouldn't it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust . . ."

"You're becoming poetic!"

"Yes, it's making me poetic . . ."

"And the smell of the petrol? . . . The mask and goggles against the dust? . . . The hideous dress? . . ."

"Oh, that's nothing! . . . To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace . . ."

"I have never been in a motor-car . . ."

"I have, in Brussels, in a friend's car. There's nothing to come up to it."

Her laugh tinkled out again:

"Yes, now you're most certainly like a boy!"