After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. His hands reached under her skirt.
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