That was the question in
this case.
The horse race came; and Mae went fairly wild. When it was over, every
body prepared to go home. King Pasquino had virtually abdicated in favor
of the Dinner Kings. Mae unclasped her tightly strained hands, clambered
down from a chair she had perched herself on, smiled a good-bye at the
veiled lady, and came away. She rode home quietly with a big bouquet of
exquisite blue violets in her hand. There was a rose on top and a fringe
of maiden's hair at the edge, and the bouquet was flung from Bero's own
hand up at the side window on the quiet Jesu e Maria, when everyone else
but Mae was out on the Corso balcony.
"It is dreadful to grow old," said Mae, breaking silence, as the
carriage clattered over the stony streets.
"My dear," expostulated Edith, "you surely don't call yourself old. What
do you mean?"
"I fancied I could take the Carnival as a child takes a big bonbon and
just think with a smack of the lips, 'My! how good this is.' But here
I am, wondering what my candy is made of all the time, and forgetting,
except at odd moments, to enjoy myself for trying to separate false from
true, and gold from gilt.
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