a man must be a great gentleman. And, like Judy, she felt the charm of the man of forty—the age that lies like a savory filling between what is callow in the young generation and outworn in the old.
His poverty had kept him out of touch with things. She guessed that if he danced at all, it would be in the stiff, uncompromising manner of the late nineties. He should learn the new ways. He wasn't nearly old enough to think of himself as on the shelf.
Judy inquired about his injuries. Had the stiffness nearly gone? No, it was no good his saying that it had entirely gone, because she had noticed that he was limping slightly when he came in.
"That's old age," he said.
"Very well. Only don't forget to limp the next time we meet. And what about your head?"
"Oh, quite recovered, thanks! That is, it aches a bit, of course, if I do much writing, but the doctor says that's bound to be so for a while. Really," he said, turning to Madame Claire, "I feel I owe my life to Miss Pendleton and her chauffeur. Any one else would have run gayly over me and gone on. I think it was such amazingly good luck that it happened to be that particular car."
