The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. "Did I hear you …" began McClintock. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other. " She pursed her lips and uttered a whistle, piercingly shrill and high; and instantly she became the object of intense astonishment on the part of the other diners. “Have you never met a suitable wife? What is wrong with getting married and having children as Mike and Shari have done? I should love to think. I wouldn't have him see me in this state for the world.
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