I believed you were meant for me when I first saw you--and I believe it now.

In spite of all you say, I am going to keep on believing it--" He went out, closing the door softly, and five minutes later, feeling extraordinarily young, she watched him pass through the gate, and walk as buoyantly as ever in the direction of Broadway.

While she looked after him she wondered suddenly why novelists always dropped their heroines as soon as they passed twenty-seven?
"If I'd been in a play, they'd have put me in the background, dressed in lavender, and made me look on and do fancywork," she thought humorously, "but this is real life, and I've just had a real love scene on my thirty-eighth birthday.
He couldn't have been more romantic if I'd been Fanny," she mused with an agreeable complacency.

"It's only in books and plays that people stop falling in love when they pass the twenties.

I don't believe they ever stop in real life.