The twelve years past had made them older, as the years must in passing.

Basil was now forty-two, and his moustache was well sprinkled with gray.

Isabel was thirty-nine, and the parting of her hair had thinned and retreated; but she managed to give it an effect of youthful abundance by combing it low down upon her forehead, and roughing it there with a wet brush.

By gaslight she was still very pretty; she believed that she looked more interesting, and she thought Basil's gray moustache distinguished.

He had grown stouter; he filled his double-breasted frock coat compactly, and from time to time he had the buttons set forward; his hands were rounded up on the backs, and he no longer wore his old number of gloves by two sizes; no amount of powder or manipulation from the young lady in the shop would induce them to go on.