"It's simply perfect.""I thought you would like it, Martine.""Like it! I should say so, but it isn't 'it,' it's everything,-the room, the house, you, Boston. Really, you don't know how glad I am to be here, Brenda-I mean Mrs. Weston.""What nonsense!""That I should like things?""No, that you should call me 'Mrs. Weston.' It's bad enough to be growing old, so don't try to make me feel like a grandmother. Truly, I can't believe that I am a day older than when I was sixteen, and yet when I was sixteen, eighteen seemed the end of everything worth while. I could not imagine myself old, and serious, and-twenty."Martine smiled at Brenda's emphasis of the last word, and as she smiled she laid her hand on her friend's arm."Come," she said, "just look in this mirror. A person who did not know could not tell which is the older, you or I.""Again, nonsense!"