"It is as beautiful as the past," he explained most unnaturally, for
he and his friend had a horror of looking at the long, long past,
which could not fail to remind them of--what no one cares to
contemplate out of church. Making an effort toward some determination
which a subtle observer might have noticed weighing upon him all the
evening, he added: "And, apropos of the past--"

"_Hein_?" interrogated the old lady, impatiently, still under the
influence of her irascibility about the mushrooms.

He moved his chair closer, and bent forward, as if his communication
were to be confidential.

"Ah, bah! Speak louder!" she cried. "One would suppose you had some
secret to tell. What secrets can there be at our age?" She took up her
cards and began to play. There could be no one who bothered herself
less about the forms of politeness.

"Yes, yes," answered Mr. Horace, throwing himself back into his chair;
"what secrets can there be at our age?"

The remark seemed a pregnant one to him; he gave himself up to it. One
must evidently be the age of one's thoughts. Mr. Horace's thoughts
revealed him the old man he was. The lines in his face deepened into
wrinkles; his white mustache could not pretend to conceal his mouth,
worsened by the loss of a tooth or two; and the long, thin hand that
propped his head was crossed with blue, distended veins. "At the last
judgment"--it was a favorite quotation with him--"the book of our
conscience will be read aloud before the whole company."