Mrs. Forster let her expensive fur slip back from her fine shoulders and looked at the rings on her small hands.

“I loved him, Margaret,” she said. “I really did love him.”

“We know you loved him. I mean, it was love,” said Margaret. “It’s nothing to do with the age you are. Life’s never over. It was love. You’re a terrible woman, Jill.”

“Oh, Margaret,”  said Mrs. Forster with a discreet glee, “I know I am.”

“He was your fourth,” said Margaret.

“Don’t, Margaret,” giggled Mrs. Forster.

“No, no, I’m not criticizing. I never criticize. Live and let live. It wasn’t a fancy, Jill. You loved him with all your heart.”

Jill raised her chin in a lady-like way.

“But I won’t be hit,” she whispered. “At my age I allow no one to strike me. I am fifty-seven, Margaret, I’m not a girl.”