From eight o’clock in the morning until about half past eleven Monica Tyrell suffered from her nerves, and suffered so terribly that these hours were–agonizing, simply. It was not as though she could control them. “Perhaps if I were ten years younger .. .” she would say. For now that she was thirty-three she had a queer little way of referring to her age on all occasions, of looking at her friends with grave, childish eyes and saying: “Yes, I remember how twenty years ago . . . ” or of drawing Ralph’s attention to the girls–real girls–with lovely youthful arms and throats and swift hesitating movements who sat near them in restaurants. “Perhaps if I were ten years younger . . .”