They were still arguing the matter in the
limousine.
"I just don't like to think of all sorts of dirty Turks and Arabs
having used them," she protested. "Slept on them, walked on them,
spilled things on the - ? ugh!"
"But the colors, Natalie dear! The old faded 'copper-tones, the
dull-blues, the dead-rose! There is a beauty about age, you know.
Lovely as you are, you'll be even lovelier as an old woman."
"I'm getting there rather rapidly."
He turned and looked at her critically. No slightest aid that she
had given her beauty missed his eyes, the delicate artificial
lights in her hair, her eyebrows drawn to a hair's breadth and
carefully arched, the touch of rouge under her eyes and on the
lobes of her ears. But she was beautiful, no matter what art had
augmented her real prettiness. She was a charming, finished product,
from her veil and hat to her narrowly shod feet. He liked finished
things, well done. He liked the glaze on a porcelain; he liked the
perfect lacquering on the Chinese screen he had persuaded Natalie
to buy; he preferred wood carved into the fine lines of Sheraton
to the trees that grow in the Park, for instance, through which
they were driving.
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