“And poor Aline is dead!  And the rest of us are middle-aged now, Rudolph, and we go in to dinner with the veterans who call us ‘Madam,’ and we are prominent in charitable enterprises....  But there was a time when we were not exactly hideous in appearance, and men did many mad things for our sakes, and we never lose the memory of that time.  Pleasant memories are among the many privileges of women.  Yes,” added Mrs. Pendomer, meditatively, “we derive much the same pleasure from them a cripple does from rearranging the athletic medals he once won, or a starving man from thinking of the many excellent dinners he has eaten; but we can’t and we wouldn’t part with them, nevertheless.”

Rudolph Musgrave, however, had not honored her with much attention, and was puzzling over the more or less incomprehensible situation; and, perceiving this, she ran on, after a little: 

“Oh, it worked—­it worked beautifully!  You see, she would always have been very jealous of that other woman; but with me it is different.  She has always known that scandalous story about you and me.  And she has always known me as I am—­a frivolous and—­say, corpulent, for it is a more dignified word—­and generally unattractive chaperon; and she can’t think of me as ever having been anything else.  Young people never really believe in their elders’ youth, Rudolph; at heart, they think we came into the world with crow’s-feet and pepper-and-salt hair, all complete.  So, she is only sorry for you now—­rather as a mother would be for a naughty child; as for me, she isn’t jealous—­but,” sighed Mrs. Pendomer, “she isn’t over-fond of me.”

Colonel Musgrave rose to his feet.  “It isn’t fair,” said he; “the letters were distinctly compromising.  It isn’t fair you should shoulder the blame for a woman who was nothing to you.  It isn’t fair you should be placed in such a false position.”

“What matter?” pleaded Mrs. Pendomer.  “The letters are mine to burn, if I choose.  I have read one of them, by the way, and it is almost word for word a letter you wrote me a good twenty years ago.  And you re-hashed it for Patricia’s benefit too, it seems!  You ought to get a mimeograph.  Oh, very well!  It doesn’t matter now, for Patricia will say nothing—­or not at least to you,” she added.

“Still——­” he began.

“Ah, Rudolph, if I want to do a foolish thing, why won’t you let me?  What else is a woman for?  They are always doing foolish things.  I have known a woman to throw a man over, because she had seen him without a collar; and I have known another actually to marry a man, because she happened to be in love with him.  I have known a woman to go on wearing pink organdie after she has passed forty, and I have known a woman to go on caring for a man who, she knew, wasn’t worth caring for, long after he had forgotten.  We are not brave and sensible, like you men.  So why not let me be foolish, if I want to be?”

“If,” said Colonel Musgrave in some perplexity, “I understand one word of this farrago, I will be—­qualified in various ways.”