She was still beautiful, it is true, a fair, full-blown, matronly creature not more than thirty-five, looking perhaps thirty, feeling, alas, that she was a girl and still as attractive as ever.

It is a grim thing to a woman, however fortunately placed, to realize that age is creeping on, and that love, that singing will-o'-the-wisp, is fading into the ultimate dark.

Aileen, within the hour of her greatest triumph, had seen love die.

It was useless to tell herself, as she did sometimes, that it might come back, revive.

Her ultimately realistic temperament told her this could never be.