Who can tell? _Qui vivra verra_,
Miss .Roden. It may not be in my time that the world shall hear of Tony
Cornish--the real world, not the journalistic world, I mean. He may
ripen slowly, and I shall be dead. I am getting elderly. How old do you
think I am, Miss Roden?"
"Thirty-five," replied Dorothy; and Mrs. Vansittart turned sharply to
look at her.
"Ah!" she said, slowly and thoughtfully. "Yes, you are quite right.
That is my age. And I suppose I look it. I suppose others would have
guessed with equal facility, but not everybody would have had the
honesty to say what they thought."
Dorothy laughed and changed colour. "I said it without thinking," she
answered. "I hope you do not mind."
"No, I do not mind," said Mrs. Vansittart, looking out of the window.
"But we were talking of Mr. Cornish."
"Yes," answered Dorothy, buttoning her glove and glancing at the clock.
"Yes; but I must not talk any longer or I shall be late, and my brother
expects to find me at home when he returns from the works."
She rose and shook hands, looking Mrs. Vansittart in the eyes. When
Dorothy had gone, the lady of the house stood for a minute looking at
the closed door.
"I wonder what she thinks of me?" she said.
And Dorothy Roden, walking down Park Straat, was doing the same. She
was wondering what she thought of Mrs. Vansittart.
Although it was the month of April, the winter mists still rose at
evening and swept seawards from the marshes of Leyden.
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