“What do you think of the bride?” she murmured, under cover of a magazine.

“Where?” said Benis, in an unnecessarily loud voice, laying down his paper.

“S-ssh!  Over there.  The girl in green.”

“Pretty little thing,” said Benis.  His tone lacked conviction.

“Lovely eyes, don’t you think?  Nice hair and such a darling nose.  But her mouth—­isn’t her mouth rather small?”

“Regular ‘prunes and prisms,’” agreed Benis.

“It is very red, though.”

“Lipstick, probably.”

“But I thought you liked small, red mouths.”

“Hate ’em,” said Benis, who had a shockingly bad memory.

Desire went to bed thoughtful.  “I suppose,” she thought as she lay listening to the swinging train, “men like certain things because they belong to certain people and not because they like them really at all.”  This was not very lucid but it seemed to satisfy Desire for she stopped thinking and went to sleep.

Morning found them on the top of the world. desire was up and out long before the mists had lifted.  She watched the wonder of their going, she saw the coming of the sun.  She drew in, with great deep breaths, the high, sweet air.  The cream of her skin glowed softly with the tang of it.

“Quite lovely!” said a voice behind her, and Desire turned to find her solitude shared by the young old lady from Golden.

“Your complexion, I mean, my dear,” said she, sitting down comfortably in the folds of a fur coat.  “I never use adjectives about the mountains.  It would seem impertinent.  How old are you?”

Desire gave her age smiling.  “Charming age,” nodded the old lady.  “Youth is a wonderful thing.  See that you keep it.”

“Like you?” said Desire, her smile brightening.

The old lady looked pleased.

“Quite so,” she said.  “Never allow yourself to believe that silly folly about a woman being as old as she looks.  As if a mirror had more mind than the person looking in it!  I remember very well waking up on the morning of my thirtieth birthday and thinking, ’I am thirty.  I am growing old.’  But, thank heaven, I had a mind.  I soon put a stop to that.  ‘Not a day older will I grow!’ I said.  And I never have.  What’s a mind for, if not to make use of?”

Desire looked a little awed at an audacity which defied time.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” went on her companion.  “I don’t mean that I tried to look young.  I was young.  I am young still.”

“Yes,” said Desire.  “I see what you mean.  But—­wasn’t it lonely?”

The old lady patted her arm with an approving hand.

“Clever child!” she said.  “Yes, of course it was lonely.  But one can’t have everything.  Pick out what you want most and cling to it.  Let the rest go.  It’s a good philosophy.”

“Isn’t it selfish?”

“Youth is always selfish,” complacently.  “I feel quite complimented now when anyone calls me a selfish creature.  You are a bride, aren’t you?”