The wind was blowing in her face, blowing back little strands of her tightly coiled hair, blowing back her coat and skirt, outlining her figure with soft and graceful distinction.

She was young, healthy and splendid, full of all the enthusiasm of her age.

He sighed a little bitterly.
"All that you say," he reminded her, "should have been said to me by the little brown girl in Paris, years ago.

I am too old now for great tasks." She turned towards him with the pitying yet pleasant air of one who would correct a child.
"You are forty-nine years old and three months," she said.
"How on earth did you know that ?" he demanded.
She smiled.
"A valuable little red book called 'Who's Who.' You see, it is no use your trying to pose as a Methuselah.

For a politician you are a young man.